Potions and Fire
by MissDelight
Summary: Therion finds the Court Wizard of Whiterun ensnared by the effects of powerful potion. The Altmer Dragonborn spends the evening with the grumpy, sarcastic mage, helping him, though taking every opportunity to tease him and enjoy the predicament. Events escalate as Therion's past catches up. Male/Male romance. M!DB/Farengar. Cicero, Ondolemar, and many more cameos. MATURE: Sex.
1. A Little Bit of Love

Therion breathed slowly, calming himself. His hands trembled with excitement as he turned the page of his book, eagerly devouring the words. Without looking up, he took a sip of mead from his flagon. He savored the sweet nectar as it warmed his body, and let the carbonation tingle delightfully on his tongue. A wistful sigh escaped his lips as he began to feel deeply relaxed.

The door to the keep slammed shut with such force that Therion could feel his chair vibrate. Startled, his feet slipped from the table, causing the contents of his flagon to slosh. He deftly avoided spilling his drink upon his book, covering the cup with a hand. A soft growl escaped his lips as the irksome sound of angry footfalls made his slender ears twitch.

Farengar Secret-Fire stormed into his laboratory, throwing his staff against the wall where it usually rested.

Therion raised a slender eyebrow, curious what could have put the human mage in such a furor.

Farengar snapped his gaze onto the Dragonborn, noticing him for the first time.

"_Get out_," he barked, ripping the book from Therion's hands and tossing it away before turning to his alchemy station where he began loudly grinding an ingredient with his mortar and pestle.

Therion watched him in a daze. As the shock wore off, however, his blood began to boil. Moving with practiced silence and grace, he stood beside the wizard, hand resting on the black handle of his Akaviri Dai-Katana.

"You're ruining that nirn root," Therion said quietly, causing the wizard to jump as he became aware of his presence.

"What? I'm not even… Ah," he stopped, realizing he was grinding the ingredient he meant to dilute, and placed it on the alembic to boil.

Therion smirked, eliciting an indignant look from the wizard.

"You have a rudimentary grasp of the alchemical art. Are you expecting praise for your 'help'?" Farengar asked, taking a step away from Therion as he continued his work. "I've better things to do than inflating your already oversized ego."

Therion laughed.

"_My _oversized ego?" he replied incredulously.

"Are you deaf or simple? I told you to get out. Where did I put those..." Farengar trailed off, turning to search through the contents of his desk.

"Your grand entrance nearly left me deaf," Therion said, massaging his ear. "What happened, Farengar? You're more 'pleasant' than usual tonight, even for you."

Farengar slammed his desk drawer shut, empty handed.

"The concern of the _great and mighty_ Dragonborn," he said with unpleasant sarcasm, "Am I supposed to be flattered?"

Therion snatched the book he had been reading from the table.

"I'll find somewhere else to read in peace," he said irritably, tucking the book away.

Farengar waved his hand at the door, waiting for Therion to leave.

The Dragonborn turned to go, and Farengar heaved a sigh of relief behind him. His body tensed as the elf whirled around on him.

"Oh, and approach me in such a manner again..." Therion said, bearing down on the grumpy court wizard, causing him to retreat several steps, "and I may not be so patient next time."

That he killed more than just dragons for a living was not common knowledge. Therion Adamonest, the leader of the Dark Brotherhood, had a most disconcerting air around him when provoked. He was quick to smile, but just as likely, and as quick, with his blade.

The mage seemed duly frightened as he noticed him shiver.

Farengar looked for escape from his trapped position between the crux of his desk and the armored mer. The Nord's breathing quickened and Therion remained to ensure the mage was sufficiently intimidated.

"By the Nine, why won't you leave already?!" Farengar cursed, looking skyward as he found himself unable to escape.

Therion paused. This was not the way a frightened man acted. He made a quick perusal of all the ingredients sitting on his alchemy stand.

"Ah," Therion said in a low chuckle. "Who was it?"

"What fool nonsense are you on about?" Farengar asked, tightly folding his arms.

"Who gave you the love potion? My coin would be on Arcadia, of course," he said with a wolfish grin. "Short on wisp wrappings, are you? I could try to buy some from Arcadia's Cauldron, but I suspect she might be conveniently out of stock."

Farengar shivered again and looked away as he forced his arms to remain at his sides.

Therion burst into laughter.

"Get out," Farengar ordered, head held high, glaring defiantly at him from the shadows of his blue cowl.

"Why not call a guard, court wizard?" Therion chuckled. "If you think you can restrain yourself around Whiterun's finest. As you can barely keep your hands off of me."

Farengar finally pushed the Dragonborn away, who gracefully stepped away laughing as he did so.

"Is my torment so amusing to you?" Farengar asked, gasping for breath as he spoke. Therion's smile widened. If he was out of breath, then he was not holding up as well as he pretended to be.

"In a word, yes," Therion replied. "The most antisocial, introverted man I've ever met, driven to find affection mentally, not to mention physically? It's a delicious sort of irony. Ever been under the effect of a love potion before, master wizard? I suppose not - it doesn't sound like your field of alchemy."

"I prefer more _academic _research - so no, I never tried one for _recreation_. But I do know how to craft a cure," Farengar said indignantly.

"Which is very astute of you, except," Therion snickered, "You may have noticed that certain, ah, desires are becoming more and more distracting? Your mind is going to give way very soon, and you won't have a say in anything you do afterwards."

Farengar gave him an unsettled look.

Therion held up his hands. "I'm a perfect gentleman. I wouldn't dream of taking advantage. I don't need potions to bed someone."

The wizard relaxed a little.

"However," Therion added, "If you don't take an antidote soon, you might, ah, not give any choice in the matter."

Farengar stiffened, looking more wary than ever.

"Oh, don't look so anxious. Even if you lived a hundred years, you couldn't overwhelm _me _- the maids of Dragonsreach or the guards, however… oh dear, who would win, if you ran into Irileth, I wonder?"

"_I'm going to kill Arcadia_," Farengar growled. "I never knew she was capable of such tasteless humor!"

"Humor?" Therion echoed. "You think she gave you a _love potion_ to laugh at your expense?"

"Why else?" Farengar snarled, searching through his potions for a cure.

"For someone so smart, you're remarkably dense," Therion remarked. Who would have thought such an arrogant man would be so humble about his appeal.

"I suppose you believe that Arcadia possesses some inexplicable interest in my mind or body?" he said dismissively.

"Or your heart, more precisely," Therion said, leaning back against his desk while the wizard continued rummaging for alchemy supplies. "Though you make it sound as if the notion is preposterous."

"Precisely so," Farengar said, returning to his alembic.

Therion caught his arm and whirled him around, holding him a breadth away.

"What are you doing?!" Farengar demanded, his sea green eyes searching Therion's face.

"Looking at you," Therion said simply, using his free hand to tilt the wizard's face from side to side.

Farengar struggled against the elf's grip, but his arms were like iron, and he could not drop the potion in his right hand. He glared daggers at Therion, trying to ignore the sensations the elf stirred in him. Locking his gaze on the other man's amber eyes, he tried to ignore the handsome features of the elf's high cheek bones, gold lips, and intelligent eyes, searching his own for something unknown to him. Even his hair seemed absurdly handsome, framing his face with elegant, dark, golden curls. As he struggled against the Dragonborn, he wondered, despite himself, what those lips felt like. Therion moved closer, as if he might kiss him at any moment. Farengar's heart raced in his chest, but he kept his face a mask of irritation and distaste, hoping the Dragonborn could not feel its beats.

"As I thought," Therion said, his warm breath making Farengar's head spin.

"What?" Farengar demanded, wishing Therion would either let go or pull him closer and take him. Truly, he could not tell which he wanted, as his head spun.

Therion leaned close, whispering seductively in the wizard's ear. "You're actually quite handsome, Farengar."

The wizard could not help shuddering at the softly spoken words. "You bastard," he replied. "Did you not just claim you would _not _try to take advantage of my situation? And now you're trying to entice me? Why do you mock me?!"

Therion flashed one of his usual grins.

"I said I wouldn't take advantage of you, I never said I wouldn't tease you," the Dragonborn replied, admiring the wizard's face in his grip. "Though I was quite serious when I called you handsome. Curious, why you refuse to believe me. How might I convince you of the truth, I wonder?" he asked with a dark grin, pulling Farengar's chin closer.

The wizard's breath caught in his throat as the mer moved to kiss him. Therion paused, his slender ears perking up, causing the three, tiny, silver rings in his ear to bounce.

"Damn," Therion whispered. "I may kill that woman myself."

He released Farengar's face and ushered him into his bed chamber as the door to Dragonsreach opened.

Farengar gave him a questioning look.

"A woman approaches. I imagine it's Arcadia. Perhaps with a silly story that this is all some misunderstanding? While she subtly twirls her hair and smiles at you? No matter. She'll not get what she wants," Therion said, closing the door.

"Stay away from me," Farengar said suddenly, moving away, as a demanding warmth racked his body. "I fear I may not be wholly capable of constraining myself much longer."

"Here," Therion said, pointing to the chair at the wizard's desk. "Sit."

Farengar sat and watched as the Dragonborn opened his pack, removing a length of rope.

"What are you intending on doing?" Farengar asked with distrust.

"I should think that much was obvious. Or would you rather take your chances, with your body overriding your sensibilities? I could let Arcadia in and-"

"Very well," Farengar said with an exasperated sigh, putting his hands behind the chair. "Place my palms together or I'll burn my way through the ropes."

Therion tied the mage's hands and then encircled his chest.

"You seem suspiciously familiar with how to secure someone in such a manner," Farengar said, trying to sound indifferent.

"I have a fascinating night job, when I'm not playing hero," Therion said with a smirk. "It wouldn't fit well in the Dragonborn ballads, however, so please don't inquire further."

"Farengar?"

They both looked toward the door, hearing Arcadia calling.

"I'll deal with her," Therion whispered.

The wizard nodded.

"Before I go… sorry for this," Therion said softly.

"Sorry for wh-" Farengar began, but was interrupted by a cloth being forced in his mouth. He yelled something incomprehensible as Therion gagged him.

"I've had this _delightful_ potion once myself," Therion said, his eyes dark and angry at the recalled memory, "And very soon you'll be shouting as the effects grow worse. Best to avoid anyone else finding you like this, no?"

Farengar glared at the mer, breathing heavily through his nose.

"You're welcome," Therion said with a wink, heading out the door.

"Oh, Dragonborn," Arcadia said in surprise, looking up from Farengar's alchemy station. "What are you doing here?"

"Robbing the good wizard," Therion replied with a smile.

"You're what?" Arcadia asked, looking alarmed.

"Only joking," Therion said, leaning casually against the alchemy station beside her. "What are you doing here?"

"Ah, I was just looking for Farengar…" she said, glancing at the door to his bed chamber.

"Oh, what business do you have with him?" Therion asked, leaning a little closer, causing Arcadia to flush. "Are the two of you… involved?" he asked, with a touch of disappointment in his voice.

"D-Dragonborn," Arcadia stammered, looking up at the tall mer. "Um, no, not really. I was, ah, just dropping by to see if he might like an alchemy ingredient I acquired, you see."

"Oh, really?" Therion said happily. "May I see? I dabble in alchemy a bit."

"Uh, sure, I suppose," she said uncertainly, things clearly not going as she had expected. Reaching into her bag she retrieved a shimmering set of wisp wrappings that floated ethereally in her hand.

"They're quite lovely," Therion said, placing his hand on hers as he took them.

Arcadia blushed and swallowed, letting him examine the ingredient. "I'm glad you like them."

Therion quickly placed them in his pocket. "I'll make sure Farengar gets them, I'm sure he'll be very grateful for your visit when he gets back."

"Gets back?" she asked, looking at his pocket, about to demand the ingredient back.

"From the Temple of Kynareth. He seemed quite keen on seeing Danica," Therion said.

"_Danica?_" Arcadia repeated. "Not the priestess?!"

"Yes. Perhaps he's feeling ill?" Therion said.

"Sorry, I have to go!" Arcadia said, looking pale and dashing from the room.

Therion took the wisp wrappings from his pocket and turned to Farengar's alchemy station. "Dabble" had been putting it mildly about to his alchemy skills.

As he put together the antidote, he recalled the last time he had tasted it and sighed to himself. People who used potions and devious means to attain another's heart or body riled him. He ignored the sick dread that filled him, knowing what the last stage would be like for Farengar. "I still might kill that woman," he murmured to himself as he worked. "Though that would be poor manners. I wouldn't want to rob Farengar of a little vengeance of his own."

With the potion complete, he returned to Farengar's chamber where the wizard struggled futilely to free himself, a small trail of black smoke coming from his palms. Therion shut the door behind him and removed the wizard's gag.

"UNTIE ME!" he bellowed, before Therion quickly muffled him, placing his hand over the wizard's mouth.

"Ah yes, _this_ lovely stage of the potion," Therion said, glad he had tied the mage to the chair when he had the chance. "Farengar," he whispered into the wizard's ear as he struggled and grunted. "If you shout again, I will gag you and leave you locked in this room. Do you understand?"

The wizard stopped.

"Good," Therion said, removing his hand. "Now, you must be thirsty. I've brought you a flagon of my best mead. Here."

Farengar moved his face to the side, stubbornly refusing the cup.

"Too good for elven mead?" Therion asked, taking a sip of the cup.

"I don't want what's in that cup," Farengar growled. "_Untie me_."

Therion suspected he might refuse the antidote at this stage. He had done the same. It was a vain hope he would fall for such an obvious ploy.

_Well, on to plan B_, he thought.

"I know what you want," he said seductively, moving to lean casually against the desk in front of the wizard. "And I have no reservations about giving you what we both desire," he said, allowing the lust to shine in his amber eyes.

"Then _untie me!_" Farengar demanded looking pained and half mad with desire.

"We both know I can't do that," Therion said, slowly undoing the buckles of his black Nightingale armor, under Farengar's intense gaze. "But, if you do as I say, I can make it worth your while." Moving his hands slowly and deliberately, he tossed aside his chest piece and began undoing the buttons of his white shirt, gradually exposing the gold skin of his bare chest.

Farengar looked torn.

Therion bolted forward suddenly, grabbing his face as he had before.

"Drink the potion," he told the wizard, "And I'll finish what I started, before we were interrupted."

Farengar's eyes looked lost and wild, but stubborn as ever. "No," he said through clenched teeth, though he sounded divided.

"Gods, but you are stubborn! Even I wasn't _this _bad!" Therion said, kicking the desk in frustration, he uttered a curse in the Ayleid tongue of his ancestors. "Why can't you be cooperative just once?"

"Because you'll leave the moment I've consumed that damned concoction!" Farengar shouted, struggling against his bonds.

"_That's _what this is about!" Therion said, clapping his hands. "May I live to see a thousand, I won't understand how you can be so arrogant yet completely insecure! You're handsome, the most intelligent and inquisitive human I've ever known, and although you're a _complete bastard _half the time, I would eagerly drag you into my bed and pleasure you until you forgot your own name!"

Farengar looked up at him in surprise.

Therion placed his hands on the wizard's head and lowered his cowl, looking at him without the ever present secretive shadows shrouding his face.

"Farengar, you're going to drink this potion. And I will still be here after. But make no mistake, you are drinking this potion," Therion said, staring intently at him.

Farengar locked his jaw, glaring back at Therion with dogged determination.

In a flash, Therion took a swig from his flagon and grabbed the mage by the back of head. Tilting him back, he pressed his lips against Farengar's and opened the wizard's mouth with his tongue.

Farengar moaned and opened his mouth, unable to resist. Therion kissed him deeply, the honeyed potion passing the wizard's lips at his encouragement.

"Swallow it," Therion told him, "And I'll do it again."

Heat flowed through Farengar's body and he swallowed the brew, staring longingly at Therion's exposed golden flesh.

Therion drank from the flagon again and once more trapped the wizard's lips with his. This time he released Farengar's brown hair and gently ran his hand along the wizard's cheek and neck, eliciting a low moan from the Nord.

Farengar swallowed the potion.

"Mmm, so you can do as your told then?" Therion said with a mischievous chuckle.

He took a third swig of the flagon, and eagerly tasted the wizard, holding either side of his face as the wizard eagerly returned his fire, matching the deft and skillful movements of his tongue. The Dragonborn felt his head spin as he reluctantly pulled away to give him the last dose.

"Wait," Farengar begged, looking away, his breathing ragged. "Please, just untie me. You want me as much as I do you. Please…" he whispered desperately at the Dragonborn in the small, dark, bed chamber. When he looked back at Therion, his eyes were filled with longing and heartache. "I would know your love. Or I'd prefer to know nothing at all."

His voice pained Therion, as he had known it would. The enchantment drove him to speak as though he might never again feel such love again in his life. Therion lifted the cup to his lips to take the final sip, but stopped as Farengar looked at him fiercely, and said, "Don't."

"I don't want the last of that potion," Farengar said, the raw misery in his voice unexpectedly cutting deep into Therion. "My heart can take no more of this torment."

_And now I'm certain, I _will _kill that woman myself,_ Therion thought silently, watching the wizard suffer. _What to do… _the wizard might spit the potion out if he forced it, and then the effect would be weakened or undone, depending on the strength of the spell infecting him, which seemed unduly strong. Therion lowered his head and sighed, tapping the cup in thought. _What to do, what to do..._

"Farengar," he asked. "Do you trust my honor?"

"In what way?" the mage asked still sounding wretchedly forlorn.

"If I make a vow, I am an honorable man who will uphold my oath, am I not?" Therion asked, looking at him in earnest.

"What sort of vow?" Farengar asked.

"I'll untie you and make passionate love to you, _if _you drink the last of this potion first," Therion said, toying with the belt of his black Nightingale armor.

Farengar fought with the idea. "If I recover my senses, I might not feel as I do now. I want you _now_. Please…"

"Those are my terms," Therion said with finality, moving his hands away from his belt.

"I suppose the residual influence would be in effect for at least an hour, "Farengar said, considering. "If you promise to uphold your end of the bargain immediately, on your honor, then yes," he agreed, his breath quickening.

"Very well, on my honor," Therion said. Taking the last of the potion, he pulled a dagger from his boot and placed it at Farengar's ropes. Gently, he gave Farengar the last of the potion, letting the kiss linger long after the wizard swallowed the last of it.

When at last he broke away he gave the wizard a small, sad smile, as he removed his knife and sheathed it. "I'm sorry, Farengar."

The devastation and pain in the wizard's eyes hurt like a dagger in his chest.

"You swore on your honor!" he shouted.

"Yes. Fortunately, you don't know me very well. Or you'd know I have none," Therion replied with a cheerless smile, quickly gagging the man as he began to yell.

Therion laid in Farengar's bed, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The wizard remained still, his head bowed, all of the fight having gone out of him, his heart broken. Therion wondered if he had ever felt so damned wretched, in all his hundred thirty-four years, as he did at that moment.

Therion rubbed his fingers together, fire sparking and coming to life in his hand. With a look around the room, he flicked his hand, and a tiny ball of flame spun and split off in five directions, lighting all of the candles in the room. Farengar watched with a flicker of interest before once again looking away in silence.

"I learned it on the Summerset Isle," Therion said, speaking toward the unresponsive figure. "I used to sit in my room, bored to tears. So I made a game of seeing how many I could successfully light. My parents became legitimately concerned about the number of candles I kept in my room. And the singe marks on my walls and blankets."

Farengar remained still.

"My record, if you're curious, is twenty-six," Therion said, a little pride in his voice.

Farengar made no response, but Therion felt the mood lighten ever so slightly, even if it was just on his end.

"The heartbreak…" he said slowly, hesitant to revisit the past. "It hurts like hell. My friends had to drag me out of town and tie me to a tree. I even broke Talamagne's arm, poor bastard. I'd have beaten all five of them to a pulp if it hadn't been for Aran knocking me senseless. A blessing he didn't leave me simple too, I still see stars just remembering him cracking my head against Auriel's statue," he said, rubbing the back of his head nostalgically. "After they forced me to take the antidote, my heart ached so awfully within my chest, I wished I could die. But after an hour, the love, heartbreak, desire…" he waved his hand absently, "All gone. Just temporary illusions, created by someone who wants to force you to feel as they do. So they can rob you of your senses... and take what they want of you."

Farengar looked toward Therion as the mer fell into an uncharacteristic silence.

He watched in fascination as Therion began to absently weave an elegant pattern of fire in the space above him, staring at the ceiling as he did so.

"Love doesn't take what it wants," he said solemnly, looping a trail of fire into his intricate design without looking. The glowing artwork bathed the room in warm, red light. Farengar watched the design grow, until Therion sighed and extinguished it with a gesture, as if waving away the past as well.

Reaching behind his back, he removed the book there.

"Have you ever read _A Dance in Fire_?" Therion asked, his usual, playfully aloof demeanor returning, as he cracked open the worn book. "I'm going to assume you have, and read it to you anyway. Hopefully it will make the time pass quicker," he said, clearing his throat, "The scene: the Imperial City, Cyrodil. The date: seven Frost Fall, third era, three hundred ninety-seven. It seemed as if the palace had always housed the Atrius Building Commission, the company of clerks and estate agents who authored and notarized nearly every construction of any note in the Empire…"

Therion read on, bringing different voices to each character and giving them individual personalities, while settling into the role of narrator and pouring his deep, resonating voice into each line.

When he closed the book, he was certain at least two hours had passed. He cleared his throat, feeling a bit hoarse. The wizard would be completely cured, and that was worth the extra wait. Using the dagger from his boot, he removed the gag from Farengar's mouth and sliced his ropes apart.

The first thing Farengar did was to pull up the cowl of his robe, shrouding his face once more.


	2. Separation

"Why do you insist on wearing your hood up?" Therion asked with disappointment. For a man with such carefully groomed side burns, he seemed oddly intent on hiding them from view.

Farengar stood, brushing off his robes.

"Get out," he said, holding his head high.

"Are you sure?" Therion asked, quirking his brow, "I wouldn't mind staying-"

"I would," Farengar snapped, giving Therion a glimpse of his brewing anger and mortification.

"Very well," the Dragonborn said, holding up a hand in peace. "I was only trying to help, Farengar-"

"_Out!_" he shouted, wrenching the door open.

"Gods, you are determined to deafen me, aren't you?" Therion said with an indifferent sigh. "It's not my fault you drank the damn love potion."

Farengar descended upon him, dragging him to the door with strength surprising for a mage. Therion put up no resistance save for the last moment. Whirling around to face Farengar, a roguish grin spread wide across his face.

"Was it so awful?" Therion asked, holding onto the door frame. "I, for one, had a delightful evening."

He savored the scowl on Farengar's face as he shoved him from the room. Therion stumbled back, watching the door slam shut.

"Come on!" the mer shouted with a laugh, trying the handle and finding it locked. "Open the door, Farengar! I'm not leaving without my armor. A god gave it to me. And not one of the forgiving ones, either."

Therion froze, a creeping sensation along the back of his neck. He snapped his gaze toward the Great Hall. The large room, which had been deserted all day, was now filled with people, all of them looking his direction. His audience included no less than Jarl Balgruuf, his housecarl, Irileth, his steward, Proventus, and a full escort of guards. As they returned his stare, Therion was suddenly acutely aware that he was standing before them with his shirt completely open and his belt half undone.

Irileth's eyes were open wider than he had thought possible, while Proventus was staring intently at what looked like a blank parchment, every scrap of his bald scalp flushed bright red.

The Jarl, for his part, just looked amused.

Therion stood up straight and flashed a smile, rubbing his chin as he tried to think. He could already hear the guards muttering about a "lovers' quarrel".

_To hell with it,_ he thought, grabbing what remained of his mead and giving a wink heavenward, silently asking Nocturnal to pardon him for losing his armor.

"Good evening," Therion said, touching his brow with a flourish.

The Jarl nodded back.

The mer strolled away, hands tucked regally behind his back, in contrast to the disarray of his clothing. He saw little point in adjusting it and looking flustered, so he flaunted it. The best way to avoid embarrassment was to wear it with pride.

"Dragonborn," the Jarl said, and Therion stopped in his tracks. "A god you say?"

He looked back over his shoulder at the court of Whiterun.

"A jest," he said humbly with a courteous nod before leaving the hall.

If word got around that the Gods were handing him trinkets and armor, he would be up to eyes in thieves. Not to mention Nocturnal, infamous for her love of secrecy, might disfavor him for drawing attention.

He was not a devout follower of Nocturnal, but he knew better than to piss her off.

Walking through the empty streets of the Cloud District, he paused to run a hand over the tiny tree, Gildergreen. The sapling was growing stronger each day. For a moment he pictured it with ruby red leaves, glowing in the autumn sun beneath his bedroom window, somewhere far across the Abecean Sea. Shaking his head, he removed his hand from the bark and walked slowly back to his small home.

Therion smiled to himself, remembering the last kiss he had shared with the wizard, as he took a sip of his mead. The alcohol warmed his body against the cold and the taste reminded him of fond memories. Though he missed the Summerset Isle, there were times when Whiterun could feel like home. Tonight was such a night. The twin moons shone brightly in the night sky. He looked up, admiring the sight as he descended the stairs toward the empty street stalls and closed businesses.

A cloth was clamped roughly over his mouth, muffling his cry of surprise as he was pulled backward, forcing him off balance. Dropping his mead flask, Therion grabbed at the hand silencing him. His heart raced, alarmed by his inability to use his Thu'um. He felt himself being lifted up as a second and third attacker quickly grabbed his legs and torso, carrying him out of sight behind an abandoned house on the hill.

Thrashing with all of his might, he tried to escape their grip, though his strength seemed to fail him. He managed to throw a fire spell at the closest hooded figure before the man pinned his arms at his side. In the brief, illuminating light of his fire spell, he saw something which made his blood run cold; Thalmor armor. His original attacker forced the cloth into his mouth, gagging him, as he wrapped another cloth tightly around his mouth. The fabric in his mouth tasted bitter and unpleasant. Therion's vision began to blur and his body began to slacken, his muffled cries turning into distant and inarticulate moans as he tried to stay conscious. A dead or unconscious guard lay beside him, crushing his hopes further of anyone hearing him. He felt them bind his feet and hands, his arms forced painfully together behind his back.

Blinking hard, he moved his head side to side, trying to stay awake. He knew it was a losing battle as his vision began to darken. With all his might he made a final attempt to call for help, the sound barely audible to himself around his gag. The last image he saw was the hooded Thalmor putting a finger to his lips before he slipped into unconsciousness.


	3. Missing

Brynjolf looked up at the wooden sign above the tavern door. Beneath green letters reading "Drunken Huntsman" was the illustration of an overflowing mug. Pushing the door open, he was immediately greeted by warm air, laden with the smell of roasting stew. Had he been in search of entertainment, he would have sighed with disappointment. The sleepy, little tavern was too quiet for his taste. He had grown up in Riften, where opening a tavern door revealed roars of raucous laughter and yelling, amidst a cacophony of crashing mugs and glasses. Surveying the room nonchalantly, he looked for exits and coin purses of interest, as was his habit, only to find neither. The red headed Nord shook his head, missing the Bee and Barb. Just what sort of tavern had a jester in it, anyway?

Spying his contact, Brynjolf wove through the patrons and toward the hearth, seating himself and leaning forward, as he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

"I came as fast as I could, lass. What have you found?"

The slight woman beside him let out a soft sigh of disappointment from beneath her dark hood.

"Very little," she said, in a delicate murmur. Karliah's voice was, as always, like silk to his ears; soft and tender. "He was here a week ago, according to the guards. The housecarl confirmed the same. She's concerned with his absence as well."

"We're calling off the Black-Briar job for now. Maven will have to wait until this is settled," he said, scratching his beard. "You suppose she found out what was coming and made a move?"

The door opened and several villagers walked to the counter, greeting the owner.

"I don't know," Karliah said solemnly, looking up at Brynjolf from beneath her hood, concern in her violet eyes. A war with Maven Black-Briar could cripple or destroy the Thieves' Guild. Therion had devised a way to destroy Jarl Black-Briar's choke hold over Riften, quickly and quietly, and had then vanished into thin air.

Laughter at the counter interrupted the heavy silence between the two companions.

"No!" Elrindir shouted in disbelief, the Bosmer owner behind the counter looking positively shocked.

"Yes, it's true! I heard it from one of the guards who was there!" a villager said to a small crowd of patrons.

"I always wondered what he was into…" someone murmured scandalously.

"Didn't think he had it in him… seemed like he was more "interested" in dragons," another chuckled, thinking himself very witty.

A bald, pompous looking man sneered as he said, "I, for one, am shocked. It's bad enough, fooling with dark, unnatural things like, _ugh_, magic. But I never thought he was prone to acts of such _depravity…_"

"Depravity?" the first villager echoed.

The pompous man shook his head looking disgusted. "It's a disgrace! A member of the Jarl's court bedding a… a..." he struggled, as if the word was too revolting to say aloud before finally exclaiming, "...an elf!"

Elrindir looked at the man, rage building in his eyes, as though the Bosmer was warring with the impulse to leap over the counter at him.

"Well," one of the younger men said slowly, "High Elves _are _sort of pretty, you have to admit. And they're real good with magic, so it kind of makes sense the Jarl's wizard would have some kind of interest-"

"It's unbecoming of a Nord!" the outraged, older man hollered righteously. "And I do not have to admit anything of the sort!"

Brynjolf heard Karliah scoff as she muttered something about 'a backwater hole of a town'.

Another joined in, "Well, it's not just any elf though, is it? It's the Dragonborn!"

Brynjolf and Karliah sat up, more interested in the conversation.

"And it sounds like Farengar rebuffed _him! _ Threw him out a week ago!" the youth went on.

* * *

Farengar looked up from his desk, sensing he was not alone.

Since the incident, he had become more irritable than usual. He was a private man, preferring to be left alone. His new status as a celebrity was mortifying. The number of idiotic questions he received daily seemed to have increased a hundredfold.

"_What?"_ he snapped sharply, causing his newest, and most bizarre, visitor to gasp in shock.

"Oh my, Cicero has angered the court wizard! And poor Cicero was just standing here!" spouted the tall jester dressed in black and red, sounding hurt. The bells on his costume jingled as he spoke eccentrically, their melody as disharmonious as their wearer's gaze. "No, no, no! No time, none at all!" he growled, making a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "Cicero broke the rules, poor Cicero, he broke them! He must speak with the Jarl's wizard, no time, no time!"

Farengar looked him over.

"I think he's the large brute by the throne, the one wearing a lot of armor. Go and bother him," he said, returning to his tome, hoping to pawn the strange man off on the guards. Which, he considered, needed a lesson on whom to allow into the keep.

A disconcertingly shrill laugh came from the jester as he danced from foot to foot. "Ah hah, a jest! The wizard jests with Cicero! Oh yes, how thrilling!" he cackled with veritable excitement. His voice turned unexpectedly low and menacing as he added, "I do enjoy a good laugh."

Farengar reconstituted himself against his sudden change in tone.

"And what business would a madman have with a Jarl's court wizard?" he asked, leaning back while secretly placing a ward in one hand and paralyze in the other.

"Cicero is not mad, he is worried! A message for the wizard, message message message! Bring the Listener now, _now_!" he cried urgently.

"Yes…" Farengar said slowly, vowing to discuss the guards' sense of humor regarding his visitors with Irileth. "The Temple of Kynareth is what you're looking for. Danica is a superb listener," he said, forcing himself to keep a straight face as he described the impatient priestess.

Cicero began to scream with frustration, then quickly shushed himself, muttering under his breath. Farengar watched his mercurial mood swings with growing concern. Perhaps he could tempt him into drinking a sleeping potion, and avoid injuring him in combat.

"_Therion!_" the jester whined, catching Farengar's undivided attention. "Loredas, Sundas, Morndas - Cicero waited, waited and worried, pacing beside Mother! Poor Mother was beside herself, inconsolable! By Tirdas, Cicero could wait by himself no longer! The mer always comes on Loredas, to sit and listen to Mother, never late, never! He brings Cicero tidings, and oh yes! Sweet rolls… gooey and delicious. Kind words, he always speaks to Cicero," he said despairingly, before snapping ferociously, "The wizard must tell Cicero where he has gone!"

Farengar looked at the peculiar man, deciphering what he could from his gibbering.

"I neither know, nor care, where that man is," he said, tiring of the nonsensical ramblings of the jester. "As you can see, he is not here, in my laboratory. Try looking in a rotting crypt. Or, if he's not robbing my ancestors, a tavern." Farengar had no actual knowledge of how Therion spent his time, but he had a general idea of the habits of adventurers and their ilk.

Cicero glared at him sullenly, grumbling 'no help at all' repeatedly. As he turned to leave, he shot a maniacal look at Farengar. "If the wizard took away the Listener, if he hurt him…" he cackled gleefully, before his voice fell to a dark whisper, "I will bring him home to meet Mother."

Farengar watched the lunatic leave with an unsettled, bemused look. Shaking his head, he reached down into his desk and fished out his strongest bottle of ale. As he sat up, he was greeted by two new figures standing before his desk.

"Divines, what now?!" he demanded, slapping his hands on his desk as he stood up. The red headed Nord male in adventurer's garb and the female figure, wearing a familiar set of black armor, both started in surprise. "No, I don't want to know! I'm retiring for the evening. Away with you!" he said with a curt wave of his hand.

"Hey now," Brynjolf said, his voice warm and easy going. "We only need a moment. Then we'll leave you to enjoy your drink and bed. We're in search of information, and we can compensate you for your _extremely _valuable time," he said, producing a large coin pouch and tossing it onto the wizard's desk.

Farengar looked at it, a bit surprised. There were at least 500 septims in the pouch, by the size of it.

"What do you want, then?" he asked impatiently, taking the coin purse, as tomes and rare alchemy ingredients, danced in his mind's eye. "Directions to a crypt? Deciphering an ancient text?"

Karliah shook her head. "We're looking for information regarding the location of Therion Adamonest."

Farengar wrinkled his nose, exhaling sharply. "How many more people will break into my offices to ask this question tonight? I have no idea where the population of Skyrim conceived the notion that I know where the Dragonborn hides himself, but I do not know, nor care to know, what that man does in his spare time! Perhaps he was tragically eaten by a dragon!"

Brynjolf nodded to Karliah, glancing over the table.

"What is that?" Karliah asked, pointing to the armor laying beside his enchanting station. Therion's armor. Which, he noticed, was identical to her own.

"He left it here, last week," he said with a disinterested sigh.

"And you didn't think it odd he never retrieved it?" Karliah asked, wondering what Therion saw in this grumpy lover.

Farengar glared at her, reading her tone.

"I never gave him cause to remove it in the first place," he growled, although it was something of a gray area to the truth. His only comfort from the whole affair was knowing that Arcadia was sitting in jail, carrying out her month long sentence in misery. "He left Dragonsreach and that was the last any of us saw of him."

"A dead end, it would seem," Brynjolf said to Karliah.

"Not necessarily… How are you with locating spells?" she asked Farengar, picking up Therion's armor and gently folding it, before placing it on his desk.

Farengar looked at the armor. "I can use it to track him, but the Jarl would never permit me to-"

"I can pay you five times the amount Brynjolf just gave you," she said, producing several brilliant diamonds in her black glove.

Farengar raised his eyebrows, sorely tempted.

"And another 5,000 septims when Therion is safely recovered," Karliah added, setting the stones atop Therion's shadowy armor.

Some quick math concluded that his visitors were indeed willing to pay him the price of a house, fully furnished, all to find the Dragonborn.

"What is your association with the Dragonborn?" Farengar felt himself compelled to ask, reminded of Therion's remark to 'not ask' about his night job.

"He and I are not romantically involved, if that's-" Karliah began.

"That is NOT what I was inquiring," Farengar snapped.

"Brothers in arms," Brynjolf supplied with a casual shrug of his shoulders.

"I'll inform the Jarl I'm departing to investigate the location of his missing Thane," Farengar said. Adding, as something occurred to him, "5,000 septims when he is safely recovered… and if he's dead?"

"I will honor our deal. And you may help yourself to the pockets of those following him closely to the afterlife," Karliah said with dark promise.


	4. Interrogation

Therion slowly came around only to find himself surrounded by Justicars. A nightmare he had often. As the reality settled in, and he realized he would not be waking up in his bed, he took a closer look at his captors, in their vile Thalmor armor, and became so overwhelmed with terror, that he felt numb. All he could do was wait; a form of torture all on its own.

A door to the small room he was in opened and the Justicars made respectful nods, before turning and departing. Through a drug addled haze, Therion heard the rustle of papers as they were tossed onto a table in front of him, followed by a chair scraping on the stone floor. A man sat down and leaned forward, observing him. Therion's pulse quickened as he pulled a knife from the sheath on his belt, bringing it dangerously close to his face.

With a quick motion, he cut away Therion's gag and cast a healing spell, clearing the fog from his mind. "You are a difficult mer to get a hold of," he said haughtily.

Therion looked up at Head Justicar Ondolemar.

"Auriel help me, you scared me half to death, bastard!" Therion said in a rush, heaving a sigh of relief.

Ondolemar's eyes smiled, though his face remained neutral, doubtlessly a result of disciplined practice, Therion reflected.

"You know, cousin, there are much easier ways to speak with me. Ways which do not take a hundred years or more off of my life," Therion said, though he suspected he was not a prisoner to the Thalmor on Ondolemar's behest.

His cousin's thin lips lowered in a frown.

"The Dominion took notice of your swift resolution to the civil war. You're to be questioned in Skyrim, then returned to the Summerset Isle for execution," Ondolemar explained, relaxing back in his chair.

"Well, that's a relief. For a moment, I thought I was in trouble," Therion said, cracking his neck and adjusting his shoulders as best he could. He looked at Ondolemar with envy as his uncomfortable shackles chafed his skin. There was no way around it of course; if someone walked in to find him sitting comfortably, Ondolemar would have a difficult time explaining himself.

"Apparently," his cousin continued conspiratorially, "The Emperor was recently murdered. The few surviving witnesses all attest the assassin was dressed in Thalmor robes. Cyrodil is in an uproar."

"Imagine that," Therion replied innocently, with mock curiosity. "How sloppy of the Thalmor assassin, getting seen like that."

"Indeed," Ondolemar said, nodding his head. "The Dominion can only guess as to the identity of the assailant," he added meaningfully, to Therion's relief.

A thought struck him.

"It was you," Therion remarked, thinking back to the mer whom had placed his fingers to his lips during his abduction. "You were there, in Whiterun."

"I wanted to ensure my agents weren't… over zealous," Ondolemar explained, trying to sound indifferent.

"You really do care about me, cousin! I'm positively misty eyed. Be a dear and wipe away my tears for me, will you?" Therion teased.

"Oh shut up. You really are insufferable," Ondolemar grumbled sourly.

"You love me, admit it," Therion said with his most imperious smile in an attempt to further irritate his kin.

"You may think otherwise, when you hear what I have to say," Ondolemar said, suddenly serious.

Therion carefully masked his face and voice to sound unconcerned, so as not to make life more difficult for his beloved cousin.

"You have my permission. Get on with it," he said, attempting to sound uninterested.

"I haven't even told you what I have in mind," Ondolemar said, irritated at his presumptuousness.

"No, but it's not hard to guess," Therion said impatiently, having come to the same conclusion as soon as he had recognized his captor. "The Empire is in an uproar. But it's not _quite _enough to inspire them to action. Whereas Skyrim is practically begging for an excuse to go to war with the Summerset Isle…" he trailed off. "The Dragonborn, hero and brave savior of men, the scourge of Alduin, the bane of kings… found tortured half to death by their evil, elven oppressors… well, it almost writes itself, doesn't it? How many songs do you think they'll write?"

Ondolemar's impassive face, began to look strained. "You _could_ always overpower me and escape using your Dragonborn powers," he said, knowing neither of them was in favor of the option.

"That would make for a lousy song. I do that to Thalmor on a weekly basis, and no one's written so much as a ditty," Therion said, maintaining his casual attitude for Ondolemar's sake. "I know it's been hard for you, and I know it was I who asked you to join the Thalmor. Out of every member of the _Laloria Malatar_, you are by far the most suited for subterfuge. Now," he said encouragingly. "You're almost done. I'll be the last one you ever have to interrogate. Which, all things considered, is poetic justice," he said guiltily. "As a result, we'll bring war to the Summerset Isle, conquer our people, and have every last Thalmor tried and executed. The Altmer will be free from the vile rot we allowed to seep into our homeland."

"And if it's all for nothing?" Ondolemar pointed out. "If nothing goes as you've intended?"

Therion fixed him with his powerful gaze.

"Then history will remember us as butchers. Our nobility, our achievements, our entire existence, will be cursed and spat upon by all the races of man and the younger races of mer. And one day a reckoning will come," he said darkly. "We brought this upon ourselves by allowing the Thalmor to exist at all. And now we have to take responsibility for that mistake and restore the nobility of our race."

Ondolemar pulled a potion from his robes.

"You've always had a flare for the dramatic," he said dispassionately. "I can't guarantee you'll survive, if something goes wrong with this haphazard plan."

"I'm well aware," Therion said.

"And how will we make sure the Nord people find you?" Ondolemar asked.

Therion laughed.

"If someone doesn't show up from either the Thieves' Guild, the Dark Brotherhood, the mage's college, the Blades, the Imperial forces, or any other number of organizations or groups, then I have done a decidedly poor job of infiltrating this country," he said with a small chuckle. "Stall if you have to, but someone will come, eventually."

"Alright then," Ondolemar agreed, though he remained still in his chair.

"The sooner begun, the sooner done, a Nord once told me," Therion said, thinking fondly on his favorite resident of Skyrim.

"Are you in such a hurry?" Ondolemar asked, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

"Just once more. One last time. You've done this many times, Ondolemar-"

"But never to _you! _Never to my little cousin!" he said savagely, his hand still covering his eyes. "I taught you to shape fire, when you were small. _I _convinced you to join the _Laloria Malatar_. You'd still be home, safe and comfortable, if I had never convinced you to become a spy."

Therion bowed his head.

"You don't have to be the one to do this," he told the anguished mer. "You can order your subordinates-"

"_No._" Ondolemar said with an air of finality. He opened the potion in his hand. "Drink this. Scream for as long as you can. As soon as you lose consciousness, I'll go to work."

Therion nodded his head. "Promise me something though, will you?" he asked.

Ondolemar looked at Therion, awaiting his request.

"Be careful with my face, it's my best feature," he said, laughing despite himself.

"Your vanity knows no bounds," Ondolemar sighed, giving him a cynical look.

"Seriously, though," Therion continued, "When I am rescued, run. I need to know you'll be safe. The company I keep can, at times, make the Thalmor look like Mara with an armful of kittens."

"I will," Ondolemar said with a nod. "And someday, you will tell me more of your adventures here," he added imploringly.

"Look forward to it," Therion promised.

Drinking the potion, he took a deep breath and screamed as if a dragon were ripping him to pieces.

He glanced at Ondolemar who gave him a hint of a smile and silently applauded his performance between gloved hands.

He screamed himself hoarse until he began to tire from the potion, but continued to groan for as long as he could, so Ondolemar would be sure when he was finally unconscious.


	5. Reunion

Farengar looked at Brynjolf and Karliah with incredulity.

"We don't have time for this," Karliah said irritably, trying to usher the wizard into the dilapidated keep. "Therion could be _anywhere _inside!"

"And there could be _anything _waiting within those walls," Farengar said, refusing to budge. "I for one, have no desire to be caught unaware by whatever, or whomever, can subdue the Dragonborn."

Karliah started to argue with him when Brynjolf motioned them both to be silent, before beckoning them over. They moved to his side and observed two Thalmor Justicars exiting the main door. The two men dragged a bound, struggling Nord between them who began to cry out, begging for Talos' intervention.

One of the justicars stopped, outraged by his blasphemous cries, and he backhanded the prisoner, spitting on him and shouting insults.

"Nord beast!" he said, kicking the man.

A fireball engulfed the mer wholly, causing the charred carcass to fall to the ground, smoldering. Karliah looked up at Farengar in surprise, watching him advance without hesitation toward the other Justicar, the fire spell still burning brightly in his hands, reflecting the look of unbridled rage in his eyes.

The second justicar drew his sword and readied to charge, but, before he could act, he fell to his knees, clutching an arrow protruding through his neck. Farengar turned as the mer collapsed dead on the ground and found Brynjolf joining him, bow still in hand. The two men shared a mutual look, and an instant bond formed between them.

The Thalmor's prisoner sobbed gratefully as Karliah freed his hands with a knife.

"Please!" he implored loudly, looking between the three of them, "The others… save the others!"

Karliah nodded, trying to quiet the shouting man without success.

"Well, so much for the subtle-" she stopped, noticing Farengar and Brynjolf had already entered the keep, leaving her behind. "Nords are such an impatient lot," she said with a terse sigh, following the two men while gracefully drawing a sword in either hand.

Stealthily, an eager figure followed after her, quite literally with bells on.

Inside, the two Nightingales and wizard moved swiftly, disposing of three more justicars guarding a prison cell. Brynjolf flicked his wrist, producing a pick from his sleeve, while pulling a dagger from his bandolier. The prisoners, twelve in total, watched him with bated breath as he picked the lock and swung open the metal door, its hinges letting out a loud groan. He stepped aside as Farengar swept past him and began healing the tortured and frightened prisoners.

Though he would have preferred using his much superior proficiency in destruction magic immediately on the rest of the Thalmor in the keep, Farengar could not ignore the helpless Nords looking up at him, and put his limited healing talents to work.

Brynjolf took a moment to locate the keys on a dead justicar and tossed them to Farengar before going on ahead with Karliah at his side, as they continued to exterminate the justicars within the keep.

Grabbing the key ring, the wizard tried various keys until the the shackles on the first prisoner opened with a click. The Nord, an old man with gray hair, took the key ring from Farengar and went to work freeing the other prisoners, allowing the wizard to return his attentions to tending the wounded.

Small beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he toiled, commanding the golden, healing light.

A soft set of footsteps caught his attention. Suspecting it was Karliah, he turned, only to find a bitter looking blonde woman staring back at him. He recognized his associate, Delphine, from his past dealings with her related to the Dragonstone.

"Farengar! Have you seen the Dragonborn?!" she demanded, looking around wildly with her sword in hand.

"No!" he exclaimed, frustrated and annoyed by the question, as he turned his back to her and began healing a sick child.

He heard her leave, but no sooner was she gone, than a small voice spoke directly in his ear.

"Good evening," said a little girl innocently, though Farengar found her tone off-putting. How had she snuck up beside him? "I'm looking for my friend, Therion. Have you seen him?"

Farengar glared at her with mingled irritation and distrust. "No," he said, glancing furtively at her as he continued draining his Magicka and letting it replenish. When he glanced back toward the eerie child again, she had vanished. He idly wondered how so many visitors had come to the same location, and decided he was too tired to care and had more important concerns.

Farengar sighed, draining a blue magicka potion. He felt his woefully inadequate restoration abilities improving as he repeatedly worked himself to the point of exhaustion.

The clambering of many feet made him turn, and he readied a volley of fire spells if they were justicar reinforcements. He watched a small unit of Imperial soldiers round the corner, their troubled faces taking in the scene with distress.

Their leader, an important looking Imperial, locked eyes with Farengar. "Have you seen-"

"I DON'T KNOW WHERE THE DRAGONBORN IS!" he roared even before the startled man could finish his sentence.

The soldiers hurried away, eyeing the fallen Thalmor, and although they were technically their allies, chose to say nothing.

Farengar glared after them. His kinsman were being tortured and left to die in filthy cells, and all of Skyrim was fixated with finding one damn elf. As if it were the only thing in the world that mattered. If one more person asked him that question...

Farengar had just consumed another magicka potion and gone to work healing a frail, elderly, woman when he heard another person approaching with the sound of heavy footsteps running, punctuated by jingling bells echoing throughout the room. He looked up at the madman he had met at Dragonsreach, the jester Cicero, with disdain. He was in no mood for more of the man's incoherent babbling.

To his surprise, Cicero did not utter a single word. Instead, Farengar found himself yelling protests as the jester grabbed him by the arm and forcefully dragged him from the cell. Cicero mutely twisted an arm behind his back, forcing him to move at a run down the hall.

Farengar snarled questions and threats at the man, though he was too exhausted from healing to resist as he was thrust into a surprisingly crowded room. Cicero used Farengar to knock people out of his way, including the two Nightingales, forcing them both to the center of the half circle, where he tossed him unceremoniously to the ground.

A bloody figure with gold skin lay sprawled on the floor. Recognition dawned as Farengar spied three, small, silver rings in one long, elven ear. He stared at the mer, momentarily taken back. The Dragonborn looked like a stranger, his face deathly pale and empty of its familiar mirth. The helpless, pitiful demeanor felt uncomfortably, terribly wrong on the heroic adventurer. For an awful, wretched, moment, Farengar found himself wondering if he would ever hear the bothersome mer's laughter again as he leaned nonchalantly against his desk, mocking him over some bit of idle nonsense, smiling merrily, aloof in the face of his rancor.

Sitting up, he stretched out his hand and began to pour healing light over the deathly still elf. He drank every Magicka and Stamina potion he had to restore his energies, but Therion did not stir in the least.

The small girl from before appeared by his side, slipping more potions into his hands as he worked. The people surrounding him watched intently, tension in the room mounting.

After what felt like eternity, Farengar saw the mer's eyes flutter open to resounding cries of relief and excitement amongst the strange gathering.

The leader of the Imperials stepped forward, ordering his unit to collect Therion and quite suddenly, the previous mirth vanished as all hell seemed to break lose.

The various gathered parties argued over who would take the Dragonborn, with no one trusting the Imperials, and the Imperials trusting no one else. Therion blinked, his amber eyes taking in the room with growing comprehension. Summoning his strength, Farengar heard him quietly call out, only able to hear his voice because he was beside him.

"_Zul, Mey Gut,"_ the magical words transformed into a voice which seemed to come from every direction. Therion's voice, saying one word. "_SILENCE._"

Everyone fell quiet and watched Therion struggle to lift his hand, slowly motioning Cicero closer.

The jester loyally leapt to the ground upon his hands and knees, lowering his ear to Therion's lips. He listened intently as the Dragonborn whispered in labored breaths.

Cicero chuckled manically to himself, nodding, "Oh _yes, _they shall, Listener, _they shall_," he said the last two words two octaves lower and so menacingly Farengar felt compelled to thank Talos he was probably not the intended target of whatever was being discussed. Cicero laughed gleefully after another series of whispers. "It's as though Cicero is the Listener today!" he cackled, dancing from foot to foot as he stood. "General!" he said, looking at the Imperial leader, "A folder for you on the table! Oh yes, a gift! Full of interesting tidbits about nasty Thalmor plots against the Empire! A fun read, full of gritty details," Cicero said with, what Farengar considered, frightening fascination. He turned to Brynjolf and Karliah, "The two little birdies are coming with me and my sister dear," he continued, the little girl appearing once again apparently from nowhere, to stand beside Cicero. "So much to do!" Cicero exclaimed happily, clapping his hands.

"What about the Dragonborn?" Delphine demanded, looking disgustedly at the jester. She deplored the Dragonborn's choice of associates, and found the clown on par with his interest in mixing company with dragons. "Who does he want to go with?" she asked, glaring at General Tullius, who returned her scorn with confused irritation.

Cicero dropped once more to Therion's side, eagerly listening, chuckling to himself over his wonderful new role, whispering 'Cicero, the Listener's Listener!' playfully to himself. After a few labored breaths, Therion managed one word, before his eyes began to flutter once more and he appeared to fall into an exhausted sleep.

"_Wizard!" _Cicero repeated loudly for all to hear, relishing his role.

Farengar looked up, finding himself abruptly and unexpectedly, at the center of attention. 


	6. Abeyance

Therion let out a half conscious groan in protest, as he was lifted onto a horse behind Farengar. The wizard stiffened as Brynjolf rested the Dragonborn against his back and went about tying him in place, so as to secure him against falling from the saddle. As the Nightingale tightly cinched the mer's torso, Farengar heard him utter a low, cry of pain, conjuring to mind his recently healed broken ribs. With only the barest trace of sarcasm, Therion muttered, "Kill me," into the wizard's shoulder.

"Though it would make my ride considerably more enjoyable," Farengar said, craning his head over his shoulder to observe the mer slumped against him, "I suspect your entourage would have some rather strong words with me."

Therion said nothing in reply.

Already asleep again, Farengar thought, looking at his closed eyes and even breaths falling against his blue robes.

The wizard shifted uncomfortably under the watchful gaze of what seemed like an absurd amount of people. The 8,000 septims worth of jewels from Karliah had not been worth so much hassle, that much was certain. However, freeing the Thalmor captives from the keep, and ridding Skyrim of a den of justicars, had made the trip more than worthwhile.

General Tullius rode up beside him on a powerful looking war horse, his unit of soldiers awaiting him by the road, each on their own mounts. The General was a regal looking figure with an air of authority about him. His shortly trimmed, white hair, stood out against his tanned skin and leather armor. Though his face was wrinkled, his muscular physique was unmistakable, leading Farengar to suspect that anyone who fought him with the expectation that he was past his prime, would have a rude awakening in store.

"Where are you heading?" the General asked, addressing Farengar directly for the first time since he had arrived.

"Riverwood," Farengar replied. The little rural town on the water was not far, making it the logical choice, though Farengar was all but itching to return to Whiterun. Traveling and dealing with people were two of the activities he loathed most.

"We'll provide an escort for you," the General said. From his tone, he gathered it was neither a request nor a suggestion. "Running into a pack of bandits on the way would be a terrible way to start your morning."

"Or Thalmor," Farengar added pointedly, watching the Imperial's reaction.

The General glanced back at his soldiers, safely out of hearing, then leaned forward in his saddle, the morning light reflecting the gold trim of his officer's armor.

"Between you and me," he said, looking directly into Farengar's eyes, "I wouldn't mind having an excuse to kill some Thalmor. Even if it means causing a diplomatic incident."

"A sentiment I can relate to," Farengar replied, thinking of the prisoners from the Thalmor keep. His anger brewed, wondering how many more Nords were locked away while he was casually conversing with the general.

"I haven't put an elf to the sword since the Great War. Twentysix years…" the General said, a hint of longing in his voice. He spared a curious glance at the slumbering Therion. "Where do you suppose he fits into all of this? The Thalmor are his kin."

"I have never asked, and he has expressed no opinion on the matter, but I would hazard that the Dragonborn is not an enthusiastic admirer of the Thalmor," Farengar said with obvious sarcasm.

"Remarkable, that of everyone here," General Tullius said thoughtfully, ignoring the cynical remark. "Therion preferred entrusting you with his safe keeping."

Farengar was inclined to agree, given the General had an entire army at his command.

"Well, enough talk. Let's get my Legate to Riverwood," the General said, turning his horse around.

"Legate?" Farengar echoed.

"Yes," the General replied, nodding at the Dragonborn. "You didn't know he was an Imperial Legate?"

Farengar spared a curious glance at the sleeping mer. Dragonborn… Legate… Thane… How many more faces did the mer have, he wondered.

General Tullius spurred his horse and Farengar followed, his second rider jostling awkwardly in the saddle with him. They made good time, arriving in Riverwood just as the sun finished cresting the horizon.

The citizens of Riverwood stopped their morning tasks to look at the Imperials in their leather armor and red cloaks, curiously trying to catch sight of the two men at the center of the riders. Stopping outside the Sleeping Giant Inn, the General dismounted and helped Farengar with his slumbering charge.

Farengar watched in weary annoyance as a murmuring crowd of people formed around them. Embry, the local drunk, cracked open an eye and looked up from his stoop, shading his eyes as he squinted up.

"Hey! I knowsh that elf! That'sh the Dragonshborns!" the blonde man shouted, slurring his words. "What'sh wrong with my favorite drinkin' buddy?!"

The Imperials gently moved Embry aside as he tried to pry his way closer, and Farengar hoisted one of Therion's arms over his shoulders, supporting his weight. A little girl in a red dress with brown hair crawled up to them, scurrying to avoid getting stepped on by the soldiers, while their attention was focused on the town drunk. Farengar glared at her as she grabbed a handful of his robe and tugged on it to get his attention.

"Hey! Hey, wizard! What's wrong with the Dragonborn?" she shouted, jumping up and down.

Farengar glanced around, hoping one of the soldiers would pluck her off of him. Finding himself alone, he tried to shake her away.

"Get off of me," he ordered her through grit teeth.

She frowned at his unhelpfulness, but let go of his robes none-the-less, much to his relief. Instead, she took Therion's limp hand in hers and squeezed it.

"Hey! Dragonborn!" she shouted, shaking his hand. When this had no effect, her face clouded.

"Dorthe! Get yer hide over here now!" Farengar heard a man shout, and the little girl stiffened.

She looked up at Farengar to give him a final look of disdain, before she gave Therion's hand a quick kiss, in what she seemed to consider a manner too subtle for the wizard, or any other observer, to detect.

Her father shook his head as she rejoined him.

"Don't go running into packs of soldiers!" Farengar heard her father yell, as General Tullius helped him move the Dragonborn into the inn.

"...probably a dragon," he caught part of the conversation as they moved away.

"No, Papa! He was cut up real bad, like… like he fell in a mill or something!"

The door to the inn closed behind them, cutting off the din of conversations outside, but was quickly replaced by an all new group of spectators. Farengar felt his head spin, as they seemed to press in from every direction; crowds of gawking, gossiping, people.

A no-nonsense looking man with a cleaning cloth in hand approached them, apparently the innkeeper.

"We got rooms and food," he said gruffly.

Farengar was about to ask about the lodgings when the innkeeper leaned forward, jutting out his chin.

"Follow me," he said, opening the door to one of the small rooms.

Farengar felt a great wave of relief wash over him as he walked inside, leaving the voices and press of bodies behind.

"I'll bring some food," the innkeeper said, turning to leave, as Farengar laid Therion on the bed.

"How much for-"

"Ain't no charge," he replied, tossing his cloth over a shoulder. "Delphine'd kill me if I took your coin. You like skeever liver?"

"I've never had the pleasure. And I'd prefer to keep it that way," Farengar said, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion.

The innkeeper left with a 'hmph'.

Farengar sank into the chair facing the bed, already half asleep. He started as General Tullius entered.

"We're heading out," the General informed him. "Anything I can do for either of you before we leave?"

"Apparently food rations would not go amiss," Farengar said, dropping his hand from his eyes to his side.

General Tullius chuckled. "About the only edible thing Orgnar makes is mead. So long as you don't let him open the bottle," he said, nodding to the bottle of Black-Briar Mead on the table beside Farengar. An all mead diet, Farengar thought ruefully. Well, it wouldn't be the first time.

"I'll leave a few men posted outside the door. I need to return to Solitude to attend to some important matters. Like why the hell the Thalmor kidnapped and tortured the Dragonborn. Take care of my Legate, wizard," the General said with a final glance at Therion. With a nod to Farengar, he left, closing the door behind him.

The wizard sighed, wishing he was back at Dragonsreach, about to settle down into his own bed. Each time he closed his eyes and began to imagine he was home, the cursed lute music seemed to drift through the door and dispel the illusion. He shifted around in the hard, wooden chair, but he only seemed to become more uncomfortable. Grunting, he folded his arms and tucked his chin against his chest. After a few minutes, he snapped his head up in irritation and futilely rearranged himself with a sigh of aggravation.

Farengar's eyes fell on the Dragonborn, his chest silently rising and falling.

The color had somewhat returned to his skin, though he was still a terrible sight to behold, covered in bruises and lacerations. Farengar's healing magic had reconnected his broken bones and replenished his blood, but the rest of his injuries would take a day or two. His body would need some time to adjust before it could take any more restoration magic.

Farengar closed his eyes, wondering how he had wound up in such a troublesome position. Despite everything, he found that each time he looked at the mer, a small part of him silently stirred, wishing the Dragonborn would awaken and smile. Therion's face, emotionless and empty, was unnerving.


	7. Sky, Spring, Summer

When Therion finally awoke, the room was quiet and still, lit only by the dull flame of a single candle. His breath caught in his throat, as he took in the small chamber, unsure where he was. Pulse quickening, his wide amber eyes swept the place, searching for Thalmor. The sight of Farengar, sitting stiffly in the chair beside him, took him by surprise. The tall Nord was sleeping awkwardly in his seat, his frame bent so uncomfortably, Therion surmised he could only have achieved sleep through a combination of sheer, prideful, determination and exhaustion.

Therion inhaled awkwardly, his breathing becomingly increasingly difficult. He tried to breath normally, but found his chest was tight. Each time he drew breathe, his upper body responded with aching violently, forcing him to breath in quick, shallow breaths, lending him to anxiety.

Wincing, he remembered his final evening with the Thalmor. Though he quickly tried to dispel the memory, he could still recollect the violent, forceful blows of justicar boots kicking his chest with, what seemed to be, remarkably boundless enthusiasm. Ondolemar had found them and intervened, shouting in outrage. An argument had passed between them as he had laid gasping on the floor, something about rank and status being yelled back and forth, when they were interrupted by a sudden commotion within the keep. Shortly after, he had awoken to find what seemed like half of Skyrim shouting in disagreement.

Rubbing his fingers together, Therion tried to summon his magicka. A weak, golden light, flickered erratically in his palm, refusing to obey his weary command.

Farengar's head drooped forward and slid from his shoulder, causing him to wake with a start.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked sleepily, looking disapprovingly at Therion's vain attempts at restoration. The wizard extended his hands, enveloping the mer in shimmering, gold light. "Apart from trying to kill yourself with exhaustion, I mean."

Therion relaxed slightly, a small sigh of relief escaping his lips as he felt the tightness in his chest begin to give way to the soothing warmth of the magic washing through his aching body. Farengar paused momentarily, letting his magicka regenerate, then Therion heard the spell resume with its familiar soft chimes. The wizard was clearly unsuited to healing magic, regularly pausing to recover his energies.

Therion was just able to comfortably draw a full breath of air into his lungs when Farengar stopped. Opening his eyes, he slowly pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and look at the mage.

Farengar had slumped forward in his chair, leaning precariously to one side, dark circles evident beneath his closed eyes.

"Hypocrite," Therion said softly.

Startled, he watched Farengar drift slightly too far to the side, and dashed forward, catching the man just as he collapsed. He held the unconscious wizard in his arms, momentarily dazed.

Farengar's lean frame was sturdy and strong, unlike any other wizard he had ever encountered. That was the Nords for you, he thought, even their mages seemed to be built for warfare. Even through his thick, blue robes, he could feel the remarkable warmth of the Nord's body, compared to his own. Had Farengar been mer or any other race of man, he would have thought him feverish.

Reluctantly, he took one of the wizard's arms over his shoulder, and gently laid him on the bed to rest.

Therion stared into Farengar's face, suddenly unsure of himself... perhaps he was simply over tired and troubled from his recent experiences. However, as he gazed at the sleeping wizard, an overwhelming wave of protectiveness gripped him, the ferocity of his feelings catching him by surprise.

Of all the humans in Skyrim, Therion had always enjoyed Farengar's company most. The wizard's humorous, sharp wit and thoughtful nature, found Therion returning to Dragonsreach often. At first he had wondered if he simply found Farengar similar in attitude to his own people, but in time, he had found Farengar was uniquely, well, Farengar. Skyrim was a lonely place to be mer, but teasing the proud mage always made the days more pleasant.

Therion rubbed his forehead, baffled and slightly worried by the direction of his thoughts.

Developing legitimate feelings for a human was not a thought he had ever seriously entertained; his life was complicated enough.

He shook his head and laughed.

Well, he thought to himself with a low chuckle, it hardly mattered. Whatever his feelings were toward Farengar, more than likely, Farengar would be the last person in Tamriel to be aware of them. He was surprisingly dense about such matters. Furthermore, Therion would not remain in Skyrim much longer; he had a war to wage on his kinsman.

After a final glance at the sleeping wizard, he quietly left the room, emerging into the main room of the Sleeping Giant Inn, his folded Nightingale armor in hand. The Imperials beside the door turned to face him and, as they recognized his identity, saluted. One was a young man with short blonde hair, the other a more experienced looking veteran woman with braided, black hair.

"At ease," Therion said, closing the door behind him. "How long have I been out?"

"Only since this morning," the young man replied quickly, eager to please Therion. "Is there anything you require, Sir?"

"Yes," Therion replied, keen to get away from both of the soldiers and be alone. "A bath. You're both dismissed. Eat a hot meal, enjoy your evening, and return to General Tullius after you've rested."

"Sir!" the young man replied in protest as Therion turned to leave, "The General was very adamant that we remain at your side."

"What he means," the woman chimed in, "Is that the General will have both our arses on a platter if you walk out that door and get mugged. No offense, but you look like death warmed over. Sir."

Therion ran a hand through his short, gold hair. He detested relying on others and was in no mood for pointless social pleasantries, but he had to admit that even a mudcrab could give him a run for his money in his current state. Between thieves, Thalmor, vampires, and Gods forbid, dragons, walking down the street was taking one's life into their own hands. Little wonder Nords were the most stubborn, resilient race on the face of Nirn.

"Fine," Therion agreed, gesturing to the young Imperial. "You may follow me. And I will do my utmost to stay alive so the General doesn't toss you both from Castle Dour. You," he said, turning to the older imperial, "May stay here and see that my sleeping friend isn't disturbed. I'll return in a while."

Therion swiftly turned away and left the inn before either could argue, emerging into the night air of Riverwood, as the young Imperial soldier scurried after him to keep up. A light rain began to fall as they made their way toward the Riverwood Trader. Therion enjoyed the cold drops and open sky, having been cooped up indoors far too long, and happily let the rain fall on his bare skin. The soldier beside him kept staring at the him with such intense fascination Therion finally stopped in his tracks.

"Spit it out," he said more plainly than he meant to, too tired to muster his usual charm. Nothing like a week of semi-conscious torture to make a mer peevish, he thought to himself with bitter sarcasm. "What is it...?"

"Lorgren," the auxiliary replied, introducing himself. "I… That is… Everyone calls you 'Dragonborn'. I only just transferred here from Cyrodiil. The Nords in the Imperial City say you have the soul of a dragon and can shout words so powerful, they tear the sky apart! That you can shout a man to death, or bring them back to life!" Therion stared flatly at the boy as they resumed their walk, partly amused by the rumors and partly regretting letting him play bodyguard; his enthusiasm for talking seemed to know no bounds. "Some say you're Tiber Septim, reincarnated! We all thought they were embellishing, but then we found out the tales of dragons proved to be true, we started to wonder, what else could be? Well, when I arrived in Skyrim, many of the other auxiliaries confirmed a lot of the stories. And, well, I never thought I'd meet a living legend."

Lorgren grinned a bit sheepishly, watching the Dragonborn.

Therion stared at the eager faced child for a moment before he began to chuckle, then burst into hearty laughter.

"Sorry," the Dragonborn finally said to the confused Lorgren. "I'm just trying to imagine the- the old Imperials in the Elder Council, choking on _that _rumor… An Altmer reincarnation of their precious "Divine" Emperor… Oh that would be rich, I don't know who would want me dead more, every mer on Nirn, or the entire Empire," he held his sides, concerned that he might re-injure his ribs. The most delicious irony, he kept quietly to himself. He doubted Lorgren would appreciate hearing that he had personally sacked the Imperial Palace during the Great War. Cyrodiil was still rebuilding the palace.

"My soul is mer, Lorgren. Not Imperial. Not dragon. _I am mer_," Therion said firmly. Though he hated the Thalmor, he was still Altmer, a fact that many seemed to prefer to forget or ignore. "And I cannot raise the dead. That's necromancers. And the results are less than desirable."

Lorgren mumbled something and looked at his boots, walking with a bit less spring in his step.

Therion stopped.

After a moment, Lorgren turned back to look at him.

Taking a deep breath, Therion lifted his head up, shouting "_Lok… VAH KOOR!" _toward the sky. His thu'um echoed loudly, the force of his words creating a ripple of light as the air around him exploded in a loud 'crack!'.

The rain slowed, and stopped, and as Therion walked on, the dark clouds overhead dispersed, revealing the constellations and the shining twin moons.

Lorgren ran after him with a large grin on his face.


	8. Succession

Lorgren opened the door to the Riverwood Trader, Therion following behind him. Camilla looked up from her seat next to the hearth, giving the uniformed Imperial a lingering, appreciative look. The young, blonde smiled shyly at her, earning him a scowl from Camilla's brother, Lucan, as he looked up from stocking the counter.

"Welcome to the Riverwood Trader- _Dragonborn!_" Lucan exclaimed as he spotted Therion, his eyes wide.

Camilla gasped, leaping from her chair.

"What- Oh," Therion said, examining himself for the first time. He had given little thought to his appearance, driven solely by the desire to get supplies and bathe. His chest and tattered clothing were both smeared unpleasantly with dried blood. The other soldier's 'death warmed over' comment suddenly seemed almost generous, as he examined his half-healed cuts and bruises. "Pardon my state of undress. I'm in the market for new clothing, as you can see."

"Of course…" Lucan said, looking dazed as he nodded and went through his shelves.

Camilla stared openly at Therion's body in mute abhorrence.

"This is dreadful," she finally said after recovering from her initial shock. "It was the Thalmor, wasn't it?"

Therion nodded.

"This is too much!" Camilla shouted, looking enraged. "We left Cyrodiil after they ruined everything, and now they're determined to do the same to Skyrim!"

Lucan looked at his sister nervously. "Camilla…" he said gently, trying to calm her, knowing her self-preservation instincts went out the window when she became righteously angry. Therion accurately guessed her brother was picturing Camilla grabbing a sword twice her size and running off to the nearest Thalmor embassy.

Therion walked over to Camilla, gently taking her chin in his hand and lifting her eyes to meet his.

"Nothing will ruin Skyrim," he said softly. "On my honor."

Camilla looked convinced by his words, her ire subsiding, and a faint blush forming on her cheeks.

Beyond confessing to Farengar that his honor, and his word, were dubious at best, few people were aware that he swore oaths indiscriminately. Also, that he employed allurement and seduction whenever possible to achieve his own ends... although results varied with Nords.

Therion removed his hand and turned to Lucan, who merely looked irritated with the flirtatious Dragonborn. Laying out a set of clothing on the counter, Lucan paused, noticing Therion's lack of coin purse.

Setting his Nightingale armor on the counter, Therion turned the chest piece inside out and moved his thumb across one of the seams. From a hidden pocket in the lining, invisible to Lucan's eyes even as he watched the mer reach into it, he produced a sapphire and set it between them.

"I'll take soap, towels, and any food you can spare. Tasting Orgnar's Skeever pot pie once was one time too many," Therion said sincerely. In retrospect, it had been the worst drunken decision of his life, and that included stealing goats with the Daedric Prince of debauchery.

"I have some bread and dried meats," Lucan said, gathering his order. "Say, any thoughts on the moot? The country is rumbling with excitement over it."

Therion had completely forgotten about the moot and said as much. Broadly speaking, he had no interest in the convening of Skyrim's Jarls to select the next High King or High Queen of Skyrim. The meeting would be so much pageantry, followed by the selection of Elisif. Therion knew the only thing that would change in Skyrim from her appointment, was the type of crown she wore on her head. Whatever her short comings, Therion appreciated that she was a known quantity. Whatever the Empire wanted, she would do. The only trick then, was telling the Empire what to tell her.

"Elisif has been traveling Skyrim, garnering support from the Jarls," Lucan went on, enjoying sharing a tidbit of gossip. "She's currently in Markarth, discussing ways of bolstering the city's defenses against the Forsworn with Jarl Igmund."

Therion suppressed the desire to curl his lip in disgust at the mention of Igmund, feeling his detest for the man. Instead he gave Lucan an intrigued 'hmm'. Skyrim would never have had a civil war in the first place, if the Jarl of Markarth had possessed a spine.

"Maybe the moot will choose the Dragonborn?" Lorgren wondered aloud, speaking for the first time since he entered the shop.

Camilla, Lucan, and Therion gave him mirrored looks of disbelief.

Lorgren stared back at them in confusion.

"Ah, no," Therion explained, "Skyrim chooses its succession from the monarchy. And if there is no one available from the monarchy, then from the jarls. And, not to put too fine a point on it, but the moot would sooner set fire to the country than let a mer rule it."

"Oh…" Lorgren said, a little surprised. "Even though you're…?"

"I'm mer, Lorgren," he said, echoing his earlier words to the young soldier.

"But if you were a Nord?" Lorgren asked curiously.

Therion laughed silently at his complete lack of tact.

"Then I would probably be considerably less attractive and I would have been dead _ages _ago," he said with a wink, avoiding the question.

Therion bid Lucan and Camilla farewell and left.

He hurried to the White River, aching to feel the cool water and the peace he knew it would bring. At the bank, he impatiently stripped out of his repulsive, ragged clothing as he ran, leaping gratefully into the clean water. He swam out into the center of the river and, with a crack of magic from his right hand, let himself sink beneath the surface. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to the cooling relief, only moving occasionally to resist the pull of the current. With a relaxed sigh, he ran his hands through his hair, shaking his head until his hair dampened and floated in the tide. He lay blissfully on the bottom of the river bed for a minute, looking up at the rippling surface of the water, until he suspected his water breathing spell was close to done. Setting his feet against the sand, he pushed himself away from the river bed, swimming back to the surface. As he emerged into the crisp, night air, he saw Lorgren charging into the water, still in his armor.

Treading water, Therion chuckled at the soldier standing waist deep in the river.

"I thought you were drowning!" Lorgren called out to him, looking relieved.

"So you decided to sink to the bottom and drown with me in your armor. How thoughtful of you!" Therion answered with friendly sarcasm. "Toss me the soap."

Lorgren returned to the shore and dug through Therion's belongings, obediently tossing him the bar. His aim was off, and it went wide to the right. Therion stretched out his hand, and Lorgren saw it stop in mid air, then float over the the mer's open hand.

"That's amazing!" Lorgren called. "I always heard mer were really good with magic. I wish I could do that. Maybe I could use it to stop arrows?"

"You're from Cyrodiil, and you're impressed by telekinesis?" Therion asked in surprise, moving closer so they wouldn't have to shout back and forth while he scrubbed his body and hair clean.

"I'm from western Cyrodiil," Lorgren said, sitting down cross legged at the edge of the river. "Not many Imperials from the west can cast magic. At least, none that I ever met. They say it's because we're descended from Nords."

"Well, mer aren't born knowing magic. Altmer learn basic destruction, restoration, and illusion magic as children. And as for telekinesis," he said, rinsing the soap from his hair, "if you can see an arrow coming at you, it's probably too late."

"Guess I'm not missing out then," Lorgren said, selecting a flat stone and throwing it across the river, watching it skip several times before sinking.

Therion emerged from the water, retrieving his Nightingale armor, and set to work scrubbing it clean in the river.

"Couldn't you heal those cuts, with your magic?" Lorgren asked, eyeing the jagged marks on Therion's chest.

"You are full of questions, aren't you?" Therion asked. There seemed to be no end to the number of things the boy asked about.

"Yep!" Lorgren exclaimed with a grin, as if he heard the comment often.

"There are limits to what a body can take," Therion explained dispassionately, tossing aside the washed armor as he emerged from the river and dried himself with a towel. "And even if I could absorb any more restoration magic, I saw stars just trying to levitate that bar of soap. So I probably ought to avoid casting magic. But, old habits," he said with a shrug.

Lorgren quietly skipped rocks on the river and Therion enjoyed the quiet. The peace lasted less than a minute.

"How old are you?" Lorgren asked.

Therion looked heavenward, silently asking Auriel to grant him patience.

"Why do you wish to know?" he replied with disdain, slipping on his new small clothes and trousers.

"Well, if you were human, I'd say you were, mmm, early to mid twenties? And some people say elves live to be a thousand!" Lorgren said. "So, how do you guys age, is my question, I guess."

"I'm cutting you off," Therion said, buttoning his shirt. "You get one last question, and then I'm no longer obligated to answer anything. Are you sure you want to use your question on mer aging?"

Lorgren thought for a moment and then nodded.

"I'm one hundred thirty four. If you raised a mer and a man side by side, they would reach puberty and adult life with no difference. Once a mer reaches adulthood, their body ages dramatically slower to what you're accustomed to. You could liken your decades of life to our centuries, but only in changes of outward appearance. Mentally we develop the same as men, which is to say, a thirty year old mer is every bit as mature, as a thirty year old man, and he is treated as such. As for living to a thousand, it happens as rarely as a human lives to a hundred. It isn't impossible, but it's unlikely. Living to eight hundred is a grand achievement. Disease, war, violence, and just plain bad luck are likely to strike a mer dead long before old age has the opportunity."

Therion shook the water from his armor and tossed it over his shoulder.

"Speaking of age," Therion said as they began their walk back to the inn. "I have a difficult time believing you're old enough to be in the Imperial Legion. Did you sneak your way into the army?"

"I'm just short," Lorgren protested, folding his arms and scowling. "It's completely unfair. Everyone thinks I'm a kid."

"Maybe if you didn't sulk like one," Therion began with a smile when his ears suddenly perked up. "Move," he said, pushing Lorgren aside as he stepped back from the dirt road. A rider tore around the corner a moment later, pushing their horse at full speed.

The rider dismounted outside the inn, quickly nailed a paper to the door, and then was off again. Lorgren ran over to investigate the document, Therion following quickly behind him.

"There's been a Forsworn attack on Markarth!" Lorgren read aloud, eyes wide. "The Jarl of Solitude, Lady Elisif the Fair, is dead."


	9. Trekking

Author's Note: If you're anything like me, you're going to get to the parts in Dragon and have to stop and search them on the internet. Fear not! The translation is at the bottom of the page. Thanks, and enjoy!

* * *

Farengar awoke the next morning to find some dried meat and bread sitting on his bedside table. Glad to fill his stomach with something other than mead, he ate the food quickly, eager to leave Riverwood. Although the terrible lute music was no longer playing, he could find no peace of mind. In its stead was the much louder roar of a crowd, noisily discussing things in near pandemonium, their booming voices intruding through the thin walls of his room. He did not bother trying to determine the source of their discontent, uninterested in discerning the opinions the loud and inebriated.

Finished with his breakfast and bracing himself mentally, he emerged into the great room of the Sleeping Giant Inn. The cacophony of voices were worse than he had anticipated, making the corner of his mouth twitch at the assault. His sea green eyes swept through the inn, searching for any sign of the Dragonborn.

As his eyes fell on the Innkeeper, Orgnar met his gaze, waving him over. The surly man jerked a thumb toward the exit, shouting to be heard above the din, "The Dragonborn said to tell you he'd be at the blacksmith!"

Farengar needed no further prompting and quickly left, inhaling deeply once he was standing outside in the clear morning air. The sun was already high in the sky, casting warm light over the small Nord settlement. An insistent bark caught his attention, and he turned to see a dog grinning happily at him from beneath a bench, on which sat a young boy in a brown tunic with platinum blonde hair. The child, presumably the dog's owner, examined him, or more precisely his blue and gold robes, with a haughty sneer.

"Pa says magic's for _milk drinkers_," the boy taunted, giving Farengar an insolent stare as he waited for the adult to react with sputtered indignation.

Farengar answered swiftly with practiced ease. "He sounds like a modest man with much to be modest about," the wizard said, turning an impassive gaze on the boy, still puzzling over Farengar's remark. "Do you have any insults that weren't thought up by a goat brained farmer?"

His mouth hung open while his dog barked happily, wanting to be a part of the conversation.

"I didn't think so. Well then, keep working on it, maybe someday with enough practice you might even surpass your father and come up with something better than a rot brained Draugr could," Farengar said pleasantly, as he walked down the stairs to the main road.

"You…! You're… You're a snow-back!" Frodnar shouted after the mage.

"I think the dog could have done better than that. Keep trying, lad!" Farengar said with an indifferent wave, not even turning around as he left the boy glaring after him, red faced.

A brown chicken ran across his path, making Farengar miss Dragonsreach all the more. He felt out of sorts, being away from his research and his home. He preferred to spend his time reading; not surrounded by loud crowds, wandering livestock, and insolent children.

The Divines must have heard his thoughts, he guessed, as he came upon another child at the blacksmith's - the little girl with brown hair from the previous day who had latched onto his robe.

Dorthe looked up from her anvil where she was shaping a horseshoe, and frowned disapprovingly at Farengar as he paused in front of her porch.

_Splendid. She remembers me too, it would seem_, Farengar thought cynically.

Dorthe set down her hammer and walked over to the wood rail, and Farengar watched with curiosity as she hoisted herself up to stand upon it. Using a wooden beam for support, she reached up into the hay thatching of the roof and grabbed hold of an all but invisible black boot, giving it a good shake.

"_Therion!_" she called sharply. "Wizard's here," she said, adding a note of distaste to the word 'wizard'.

Farengar heard a deep yawn and watched as the Dragonborn slowly emerged from the thatch, clad once more in his black leather armor. Therion stretched lazily, extending his lithe body with impressive flexibility. With a sigh of satisfaction he dropped his arms and, as his gaze fell on to Farengar, he let a sly grin form on his lips. In one nimble motion, he grabbed the edge of the roof with his hands, and flipped forward, agilely landing before him.

The wizard looked at him inquisitively. However he had expected adventurers, or at least the Dragonborn, to move, it had certainly not been like this.

"You're covered in hay!" Dorthe said with a laugh, breaking Farengar's trance.

"Am I?" Therion replied, trying, without success, to dust himself off.

"I told you to sleep inside," Dorthe chided, snickering at the impressive amount of hay in his dark gold hair. In response, he tossed a handful of it over her head, causing her to shriek at him amidst laughter.

"As I said, I've had enough of being indoors for awhile. And I prefer to sleep where no one can sneak up on me," he replied, retrieving his pack from behind the forge.

Farengar wondered how safe Therion could ever feel sleeping again, after his most recent encounter. Even Whiterun, which had always felt invulnerable to outside forces such as the Thalmor, had proven vulnerable. At the thought of the Thalmor, he felt his blood begin to boil again, thinking of the Nord victims held captive in their keeps.

"You're leaving? Already?" Dorthe asked sadly, watching Therion retrieve his things.

The mer snorted. "Spare me the guilt."

"But you're still hurt," Dorthe protested.

"Farengar will take care of me," Therion said, turning his most charming smile on the wizard.

Farengar countered with a disparaging look, determined to show his immunity to the Dragonborn's trite routine of flattery. The elf was used to getting his way by gaining the adoration of those around him; using his charisma to charm every guard, cook, maid, and member of the court in Dragonsreach. Even _Irileth_, (well, to a certain degree). He would have none of it.

As Farengar continued to stare reproachfully at him, Therion's smile seemed to only intensify, as if purposefully vexing him. The wizard could not remember why he had ever wished that the elf would reawaken and wondered if it would really have been so bad if he had remained in an exhausted sleep, at least for a little while longer. Why had he been convinced seeing him smile would be anything other than infuriating?

"I am returning to Dragonsreach. I assume that it is also your destination?" Farengar asked.

"Indeed it is," Therion said, placing his arm through a strap attached to a quiver of arrows and slinging a bow behind his back. "Shall we be off?"

The Dragonborn bid farewell to Dorthe and the two men set out through the town and finally onto the main road, leading deep into the wilderness.

Despite his recent injuries, the Dragonborn looked more than capable of handling trouble, making him a useful asset as a traveling companion. Adorned with his weapons and armor, he even looked rather formidable. Curious, he concentrated, tilting his head to the side and letting his eyes unfocus. As he suspected, there was a faint, dark green tint about the edges of his armor. Probably a form of stamina enchantment. He shifted his gaze to the Akaviri dai-katana on his belt, which had a curious red hue to it. Farengar could only guess at its purpose, possibly health related. He rarely bothered with sword enchantments, finding martial weaponry in general to be entirely tedious.

"See anything that interests you?" Therion asked, smirking at the wizard.

"Hardly," Farengar replied briskly, looking away. "I was just noticing you managed to locate all of your equipment. Your friends insisted I haul its weight back to Riverwood along with your person."

"Oh? Which 'friends' were these?" Therion asked with interest, picking a blue mountain flower from beside the path and tucking it into his pack.

Farengar's mind reflexively listed off its alchemical attributes.

"The ones who paid me handsomely to journey out in the dead of night on the errand of tracking you," Farengar replied, sounding generally displeased about venturing away from Whiterun.

"If they paid… that would be Bryn and Karliah. How much do I owe them?" Therion asked thoughtfully, adding, "Just how much _did _it take to pry you out of your study?" He would have sooner expected a Daedric Prince to rescue him (or come claim his soul), than to open his eyes and find Farengar, of all people, saving him from death. The man was notorious for his resolve to never leave his research.

"I will say that your companions value your life quite highly, and leave it at that," Farengar said, momentarily speaking with refined words and using court etiquette. "You seem to have made a remarkable number of friends in Skyrim," he observed. Farengar doubted he had as many acquaintances in Skyrim as there had been people showing up to find the Dragonborn the previous night.

Therion laughed, and Farengar frowned, unsure what he had said that could be considered amusing.

"Sorry," he replied peacefully waving a hand, "But I've only made one friend in Skyrim, so your comment was somewhat amusing. The people you saw… I'd call them associates."

"Quite an interesting array of 'associates'. Tell me, where did you make the acquaintance of the mad jester? A rather unsettling fellow, that one. I think the guards let him into Dragonsreach on a lark," Farengar said, still upset with the palace sentries.

The laughter quickly left Therion's eyes and was replaced by something Farengar had never witnessed before in the Dragonborn. He looked petrified.

"Gods, you _met _Cicero?" Therion demanded loudly. "_Inside_ Dragonsreach?!"

Farengar watched the elf's reaction with interest. He had never seen him so disturbed before; it was a stark contrast from his normally unshakable and aloof attitude.

"Yes, he came into my office looking for-" Farengar began, but stopped as he watched Therion's eyes widen drastically, both shock and fury at war across his face. "You have me at a loss. Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me, why you look as if I've just described casually meeting Sheogorath at the local inn for a pint?"

"An apt metaphor," Therion said, calming himself and running a hand across his face. "But Sheogorath is not nearly as dangerous as Cicero. I've had a drink with the prince of madness and he was rather pleasant, despite initially threatening to flay me alive and skip rope with my entrails. Cicero, on the other hand…" he trailed off. "I am surprised you are… still intact. I should clarify something right now. _Never_ be alone with Cicero."

"Ah," Farengar said, unsure how to respond to such a chilling warning.

"And do _not_ send guards after him," Therion added emphatically, picturing a sea of dead Whiterun guards, and a very vengeful Cicero approaching the court wizard. He shook his head. "Just… find me, if at all possible."

"Fair enough…" Farengar said, not wanting to press the issue. "Tell me then, which of your associates might I consider trustworthy?"

"If they're with me?" Therion replied, thinking to himself for a moment. "Honestly? I just assume the worst, that way I can only be pleasantly surprised."

Farengar gave him a quizzical look before returning to his usual, thoughtful silence.

Therion tried to focus on the beautiful spring day in an attempt to distract himself from his aching chest and pounding head. A small voice told him he should be in bed resting, but he ignored it. He needed to reach Dragonsreach and speak with Jarl Balgruuf. Events were moving quickly and he did not have the luxury of idling. Rubbing his fingers together, he worked his magicka ever so slightly into tiny embers, testing his strength. The trees immediately began to blur and he blinked away a feeling of lightheadedness, as he opened his hand and shut his mind closed from his magicka.

Well, casting a healing spell was right out. He sighed internally, looking at Farengar, debating setting aside his pride and asking for help. He wrinkled his nose. In the Summerset Isle, asking a mer for help with magic was disgracefully weak. Whiterun wasn't _that_ far. He could easily stop in Breezehome and make himself several healing potions.

Dragonsreach came into view between the trees as they rounded a bend. The path they walked wound around the base of a mountain. Therion had traveled this way many times, and looked over at a familiar cave, a landmark which always signaled his journey was halfway over. Trees, mossy rocks, flowers, and butterflies dotted the path in each direction. The mer looked around, appreciating the picturesque morning. As he gazed up into the sky, he felt a small chill along his spine; a sense of foreboding which usually preceded one thing. He froze in place, wondering if he had slighted any of the eight Divines recently, as he held his breath and listened.

An earsplitting, bestial roar erupted over the trees, followed by the sound of rushing air.

Farengar's head eagerly snapped up, excitedly looking around.

Therion merely sighed in exasperation. Reaching behind his back, he pulled his bow free and nocked an arrow, silently hoping the beast would pass by overhead without noticing them.

He heard the words, "_YOL TOOR SHUL!_" and was already leaping to the side on the first syllable. A wall of hot, bright flame came down where he had just been, leaving a long trail of black, smoking ash across the path, tinged with fire.

The deafening thrashing of air returned as the creature landed, shaking the ground with its massive body, causing stones and dirt to spray in all directions.

Farengar shielded his eyes, and as the dust settled, he slowly stared up in awe.

A dragon.

A real dragon.

He had never imagined how incredibly large they would look in real life. The gigantic, bronze dragon growled, so low he could feel it reverberate in his chest. Dense, black smoke billowed from its ferocious looking maw in a steady stream. With a sweep of its tattered, spade tail, it turned and stalked toward him, it's sharp talons digging into the earth with each resounding step. Farengar stared up into its yellow, compound eyes. Transfixed, forgetting to breath, rooted in place by fascination and terror.

A wave of force knocked him back into the grass as the dragon snapped its massive jaws shut on thin air, narrowly missing the wizard. Three arrows sank into the dragon's neck, all in a row. The beast threw its head back and let loose a shrill cry, as more arrows sailed past its thrashing body, several hitting their mark. Flapping its leathery wings, it began to lift off the ground.

Therion rolled beneath the elder dragon as it began its ascent, the tip of its wing brushing his back as he passed below. Dashing forward at a run, he stopped to hoist the staggered mage onto his shoulder, shouting "_Wuld Nah Kest!_"

The dragon shouted more words which became smoldering red flame, but they harmlessly struck a stone as Therion ran at an inhuman pace, using his whirlwind sprint to dive through the trees.

He darted into the nearby cave, not caring what he might encounter as he ran inside, dropping Farengar beside him, as he fell to a knee, still clutching his bow with a nocked arrow in his right hand.

"What," Therion shouted at Farengar, his words punctuated by panting breaths, "is wrong with you?! Are you completely-" his words were drowned out by a vehement roar from the cave's entrance, where the dragon breathed wild gouts of flame from too far a distance to do anything more than raise the ambient temperature.

Therion glared back at it with the annoyed look of one who had just been rudely interrupted mid-sentence. With a casual snap of his bowstring, he delivered an arrow to the center of the dragon's brow, causing it to roar in pain and surprise.

"Gods damned dragons," Therion muttered wearily, his head pounding violently along with rest of his body. He felt on the verge of collapse, but he steeled his voice and savagely shouted, "_Zu'u, Dovahkiin, hin daan!"_

Farengar sat up, finally free of the staggering effect of Therion's unrelenting force, his mouth agape. There had been no special effects following his words. The Dragonborn was actually _shouting _in Dragon, instead of, well, shouting in Dragon. He wasn't entirely clear on the differences as a whole, but one appeared to be mindlessly flinging words around like battle axes, while the other seemed to be conversing in a language. Of _Dragons_.

"_Meyz nu Dovahkiin?!_" the dragon shouted back in surprise, its low voice reverberating through the cave.

"_Meyye! _Who else?!" Therion spat back.

"_Krosis_, sorry," the dragon said in a deeply humble voice, "I do not wish to fight you, _Dovahkiin_."

"Then fly," Therion commanded in a low voice.

To his relief the dragon turned around, and he heard the rush of wind from the beating of its wings as it departed.

Farengar stared at the mer in fascination, but Therion didn't notice as he distantly heard his bow clatter to the ground. The next thing he knew, he was staring at the cave floor. He numbly felt Farengar's hand move him side to side, looking for injury. The wizard was saying something, but he couldn't hear the words over the pounding in his head. Healing light coursed through him, gradually softening the deafening sound of his pulse in his ears until he could hear again.

"Thank you," Therion said in a sigh as the pain in his body was washed away. "Were you saying something just now?"

Farengar wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his robe, sparing him a disapproving look as he did so.

"I called you a stubborn fool of an elf," he explained, pausing to recover his magicka. "I thought you were fatally wounded by the dragon. You could have said your injuries were bothering you."

"And miss the look of concern on your face?" Therion teased.

"I wear no such expression," Farengar said plainly, renewing his healing efforts. The spell was taxing, but not nearly as much as it had been the previous night. "During my brief travels with you, my restoration magic has improved by leaps and bounds. How have you survived this long, pushing your body to such idiotic extremes?"

"Wait, are you _actually _worried about me?" Therion laughed mockingly, his spirits lifting as he teased the wizard.

Farengar snorted. "Merely an observation," he said, lowering his hands as his spell finished. "How are you feeling now? And be honest. Unless you're planning on savoring my 'look' of malice, when we're carved up by bandits."

Therion took stock of his body and tried to sit up. The effort was strenuous, but he managed to reach a sitting position and leaned back against the cool cave wall.

He grumbled something inaudibly.

"Pardon?" Farengar asked, as the mer became suddenly silent, stubbornly setting his jaw and glancing away. "Ah," Farengar said, watching the way he wrinkled his nose; he had seen Therion do so on several occasions in Dragonsreach. An unconscious habit of his, Farengar thought, one he made whenever frustrated, but particularly, when he had to ask for something.

Extending his hands, he wordlessly resumed healing. He ran through his magicka twice more, before Therion waved his hands away and stood up. Well, as much as he could. The six-foot-five mer had to stoop to avoid hitting his head. Much as he did across Skyrim. Which was always off putting to him, having been considered on the shorter side by Altmer standards.

Hooking his bow once more behind his back, he exited the cave and stretched to his full height, feeling immensely better.

"I can murder as many bandits as you like," Therion reassured his companion, "But I make no promises about dragons."

"Well, what did you say to the last one?" Farengar asked, still impressed as much by the dragon's reaction as by Therion's ability to speak the Dragon tongue. "It practically tucked its tail between its legs as it flew away."

"Hm, what did I say?" he wondered aloud, trying to remember. "I think it boiled down to 'fuck off'," he said with a shrug, walking to the main road.

"And that... works?" Farengar asked quizzically. All his research would feel rather underwhelming if that were the case.

"Well, I wouldn't advise you try it. I made it clear I was Dragonborn. Since I killed Alduin, most dragons prefer to avoid me if possible. They don't want me as an enemy."

Farengar wondered what the Dragonborn looked like, fighting a dragon at full strength.

"How did you learn to speak their language? Is it because of your Dragonborn abilities?" Farengar asked eagerly, a million questions springing to mind. "Are there any other types of souls you can absorb? Any humanoids?"

Therion blinked in surprise as Farengar asked with such bright enthusiasm he could scarcely recognize him as the same man.

"Human souls? No, not without a black soul gem and some questionable life choices," he said. "And my grasp on dragon is not exactly… fluent. I'm told my pronunciation is nothing short of appalling," he said with a laugh. "But, it's slowly improving. I just happen to enjoy languages, so I'm studying with a friend in what little spare time I get to myself. But, no, being Dragonborn doesn't give me an intimate knowledge of vocabulary and pronunciation. It just allows me to wield the words properly as weapons with my thu'um."

Farengar nodded eagerly, fascinated by the topic.

"I've heard it said that fighting between dragons is much like a deadly verbal debate. How I envy your knowledge of such a power, to fight with _words_," the wizard said.

"It's not as elegant as you're imagining, I think," Therion said slowly. He smiled, enjoying the excited light in the man's eyes. "You could call it a 'deadly verbal debate', but it's not the most cerebral exchange. More like an argument over elements if anything. _Fire! Lightning! Fire!_" he said with a chuckle.

"Yes, but you're actually killing your enemies with your words!" Farengar said, intrigued by the concept.

"Oh yes, quite the language of love," Therion laughed. "Then again, I could imagine some women finding that appealing."

"How do you absorb the soul of a dragon?" Farengar asked, already on to his next question. "What does it feel like?"

Therion happily launched into an explanation, enjoying the opportunity to entertain the Nord as they made their way to Whiterun.**  
**

* * *

Translation:

_Zu'u, Dovahkiin, hin daan!_ - I, the Dragonborn, will be your doom!  
_Meyz nu Dovahkiin?! - _You're the Dragonborn?!******  
**_Meyye! _- Fool!  
_Krosis_ - Sorry


	10. Wards and Armor

Farengar grit his teeth as they made their way through the large gate of Whiterun. The townsfolk were collectively staring as he and Therion entered, and Farengar returned their looks with an icy stare.

Ysolda and Hulda leaned together, speaking in hushed whispers.

"Farengar actually _left_ Whiterun!?" Hulda asked in surprise, always on the lookout for a tidbit of juicy gossip to impart to her patrons at the Bannered Mare.

"It's actually a romantic tale," Ysolda said with a small sigh, sparring a heartfelt smile at the wizard, despite his death glare. "The guards say he rushed out in the middle of the night to find the missing Thane."

Hulda raised her eyebrows, looking impressed. "Huh! Do you suppose they've made up since their quarrel in Dragonsreach then?"

"Hm, it's hard to say, isn't it?"

Ysolda and Hulda watched silently as Therion and Farengar discussed something outside the Thane's house. The court wizard shook his head. The Dragonborn, wearing his perpetual grin of mischief, leaned down to whisper something into Farengar's ear.

Whatever he said caused the court wizard to stiffen, then shove the Dragonborn into Breezehome, slamming the door shut behind them.

"Oh my," Ysolda said, her cheeks blossoming a faint red.

"They do seem to have quite the, ah, passionate relationship, don't they?"

* * *

"You conniving, _manipulative- _I could kill you!" Farengar hissed, bearing down on the elf.

"Hold on, you may have already succeeded," Therion winced, putting a hand on his chest as he sank into the nearest chair beside the fire pit.

"It's no less than you deserve," Farengar said with a merciless scowl.

"This is what a mer gets for asking a man for help?" Therion asked, giving him an absolutely galling look of innocence.

"Help? That's how you ask for help? Request I come inside and then threaten to 'give Whiterun something to _really_ talk about' when I decline?"

Therion only barely suppressed a chuckle rising in his throat.

"Right, now that you're here, help me out of my armor, would you?"

Farengar turned on his heel, heading for the door.

The mer sighed.

"Please?"

The way Therion said it, caused Farengar to stop. It hadn't been imploring or flowery, just sincere.

"Don't you have a housecarl for these sorts of things?" Farengar asked with an annoyed frown, moving beside Therion. His eyes wandered over the inky armor, looking for the catches which seemed to supernaturally blend in with the material.

"Lydia? We have an arrangement. She comes by, but she doesn't live here," Therion said, turning to give Farengar a better view of the nearly invisible buckles. "Even if I could adjust to the idea of living with a stranger, she seems none too fond of me, nor 'carrying my burdens', so we're both happier."

Therion listened as Farengar worked the straps loose, quietly cursing and pulling.

"Ward spells are much less cumbersome," he said with a derisive snort.

"Oh, certainly," Therion agreed, "If you enjoy armor that falls off at the worst possible moment." Robes were about as much protection as walking around naked in his opinion, but more importantly, light armor just looked sexier.

Although, he rather liked the way robes looked on Farengar.

They looked like they could easily be pulled open and slid off the wizard's muscular frame. Trapping his arms in the sleeves, as he pressed him against the wall. Hungrily kissing his neck, while listening to his delectable moans.

He blinked, noticing Farengar was glaring at him.

Therion cocked an eyebrow in silent question, wondering if he had noticed the almost certainly blatant lust in his expression.

"If you can't maintain a _simple _ward spell, then I suppose dressing like a common foot soldier would of course be preferable," the wizard replied, and Therion could hear he had struck a nerve about his choice of attire, and also that he was as oblivious as ever. He was slightly disappointed, part of him hoping the mage might notice his lingering gaze.

"Or," Therion said, taking offense at the 'common foot soldier' remark, "Perhaps you prefer robes, because buckles are simply too complicated?"

He hissed as Farengar hitched his shoulder strap free with unnecessary roughness.

"Sorry," the wizard said unapologetically, "That last strap was rather _complex_."

Therion glared at him, the look dissolving into begrudging amusement.

He was in no condition to seduce anyone with his freshly mended ribs, so perhaps it was just as well Farengar missed his looks and advances. He couldn't even remove his own armor without effort and his chest was already violently aching once again as he wiggled free from his chest piece.

He was about to make a parting remark about wards and slip away to make himself a healing draught when Farengar quirked his head a bit, studying him. Without explanation he took a knee, held out his hands, and healed him.

Therion sat up in surprise, the pain in his chest subsiding.

Farengar, by all accounts, the most absent minded professor in the realm, oblivious to all outward signs of expression, seemed to know exactly when he was in pain. And each time, he thoughtfully spared Therion his pride.

He could feel the radiating warmth of the Nord's hands even from a short distance. Combined with the heat of the fire pit, the ever present chill of Skyrim which clung to his body, was chased away, leaving him feeling relaxed and safe. A burden lifted from his shoulders he had not known was there, as he felt at home and at peace. A feeling he had not had since before he had left Alinor, years ago.

Watching the mage work his magic, he closely admired his expression of absolute concentration, so achingly close.

Without thinking, he let his eyes slide closed, and he leaned forward, pressing his lips against Farengar's.

The Nord's lips were divinely warm, warmer than any he had ever known. Inhaling, he smelled fresh snow, pine needles, and the faint scent of smoke and fire with a hint of sweat. He felt a delicious, light-headed feeling course through him, as if he had consumed the perfect amount of Summerset Mead. For a moment, he was lost. Consumed in the scent and feel of him, and the feeling building inside his chest.

Abruptly, his mind caught up with him. His last conscious thought leading up to that moment had been an intense desire to ruin Farengar's picture perfect concentration. Now, he was realizing the mage would react any moment. Breathing in, he memorized the moment, his essence, and knew he would have no regrets.

Farengar broke away, his face blank with utter shock. Staring at Therion, he struggled to collect his wits. For a moment, he saw a flash of something, raw and vulnerable, before his eyes turned hard and he rose to his feet, walked away, and left Breezehome without a word.

Therion ran a hand through his short hair.

"Well, that went about as well as I expected," he said with a deep sigh.

Farengar's expression still fresh in his mind, he stood and retrieved the blue mountain flower from his pack, a bittersweet feeling hanging over him. Grinding it up in his pestle, he boiled water within his alembic, adding a drop of red dye, unable to tear his mind from Farengar. His look had been unmistakable. Therion had seen it too many times to miss its significance.

Old pain.

Someone had hurt the court wizard.


	11. Diplomacy

Jarl Balgruuf leaned forward in his throne, listening intently as his court wizard recounted the atrocities he had witnessed within the Thalmor compound. He could hear Dagny and Frothar running and playing in the war room, shouting with carefree innocence, while Farengar described the sick child he had healed within the Thalmor dungeon. His knuckles turned white as his grip tightened. The sound of steel on steel rang through his mind, tantalizingly real, as he longed to take up his sword and taste Thalmor blood.

As Farengar fell silent, Proventus jumped in.

"My lord," the flustered Imperial implored, watching the Jarl nervously, "We mustn't be rash."

"I will not sit idly by while the Thalmor torture and slaughter my people!" the Jarl said, his voice rising louder until he was shouting.

Proventus licked his lips, sweating under his angry gaze.

"Yes, but this is a delicate matter. If we send troops against the Thalmor, you'll-"

"Be committing an act of war against the Empire!" Balgruuf finished with a roar. "And what would you have me do?! Nothing?"

"No," Proventus said hurriedly. "But this matter might be better handled by the General. If Tullius finds a solution, Whiterun won't be a target for both the Thalmor and the Empire."

Farengar leveled a glare at Proventus with the full weight of his loathing. Proventus always wanted to play it safe, everyone else be damned. He had never hated his cowardice more than at that moment.

"Please," Proventus entreated, "Shouldn't we at least _speak _with the General before committing the hold to an act of war, my lord?

The Jarl said nothing, his face intent with consideration.

Farengar's hands tightened into fists. The jarl only hesitated when he was about to choose a course he didn't want to.

The door to Dragonsreach opened, interrupting the tension in the room.

Jarl Balgruuf lifted his head, nodding to the visitor.

Farengar glanced over his shoulder and, after seeing the Dragonborn, returned his gaze back to the jarl.

Therion walked up beside the wizard, dressed simply in a white shirt, the slacks of his armor, and his Akaviri dai-katana at his waist. He glanced at the wizard who was firmly ignoring him. Not that it looked any different from how Farengar normally acted.

"Dragonborn," the jarl greeted him, "It seems Farengar was able to find you then. We've been discussing other matters at present."

"I imagine so," Therion said, glancing at the strained expressions of the court. "It's a pleasure to be back in Dragonsreach. It's only been a week, but it feels like ages since I was here last."

The jarl smiled.

"We certainly saw a lot more of you on your last visit," he said good-naturedly, referring to Therion's infamous half-naked departure.

Therion smiled back.

"I'm glad you remember," he said, receiving several confused looks.

Moving his hands to his collar, Therion slowly undid the buttons of his shirt, eliciting a gasp from Proventus at his impropriety.

The Imperial stammered something unintelligible, as Therion withdrew his arms from the sleeves of his shirt, letting it fall around his waist, where it was tucked into his leather leggings.

He suppressed a shiver as he stood bare chested for all eyes to see in the Great Hall. The flickering torches cast enough heat for a Nord, but not nearly enough for an Altmer, let alone a half dressed mer.

Ondolemar had done a good job on the scars, if the looks he was receiving were any indication. He bitterly missed his body being unmarred, but pushed the thought out of his mind as soon as it surfaced. He had no place for regret in his life. Besides, scars were sexy. He could make do.

He wondered if that thought would have made Ondolemar laugh at his vanity, and wondered how his cousin was doing, somewhere out there, in an increasingly volatile Skyrim.

"As you can see, some things have changed since we saw each other last," Therion said.

"Th-this is highly inappropriate!" Proventus stammered.

"I agree," Therion said darkly. "As we speak, there are Nords chained in dungeons, who look," he swept a hand across his gruesome torso, "Like this. And worse. I think something ought to be done about it. Don't you, my lord?"

"But the Empire-!" Proventus began.

"Is busy looking for a new Emperor, perhaps even one with a pulse," Therion snapped, losing his temper, his words reverberating with his thu'um.

Proventus shrank back a step.

"I can assure you as an Imperial Legate, General Tullius won't dare hold Whiterun accountable for taking up arms against the Thalmor. And even if the Empire dared turn its back on this hold, I would show them the _gross_ error of their ways."

His amber eyes were dark with promise.

"Enough," Jarl Balgruuf said. "Irileth, gather your men," he said, rising from his throne. "We're going hunting for Thalmor."

"Yes, my lord," Irileth said, her face stern as ever, but a smile alight in her red eyes.

"As it happens," Therion said in feigned casual interest, "I've come across a number of Thalmor camps in my travels. Most on the way to Solitude, where I hear the moot is being held. Perhaps I might escort the Jarl and his court to their destination?"

A slow smile spread across the Jarl's face.

"Of course. We couldn't refuse the escort of Whiterun's most accomplished Thane," Balgruuf said.

"And should the Thalmor mistake us for bandits, we would of course, regrettably, be forced to defend ourselves. And free any Nords held captive in their camps," Therion said with feigned innocence. "And once we reach Solitude, perhaps we could pay the Thalmor Headquarters a little visit, for diplomatic reasons, before going to the moot."

"Two birds with one stone; kill some Thalmor and go to a boring meeting. Well, at least we'll have some fun while we're there. Let us discuss things further in the war room," Balgruuf said, grinning with the anticipation of battle.

"With pleasure," Therion said, replacing his shirt, his gold skin covered in goosebumps. He still hated the cold passionately. Balgruuf and Therion turned and headed up the stairs to the war room, while the court wizard departed in the opposite direction for his laboratory.

"It looks as though they did quite a number on you," the jarl said in a warm, sympathetic tone. "How long will it be until you recuperate?"

"Auriel only knows," the court wizard heard Therion say bitterly. "I'd be dead, if it weren't for Farengar. He saved my life."

"Really? He didn't mention it."

"Probably because he regrets it," Therion said with a jovial laugh, and Farengar could feel his gaze on his back as he left the Great Hall.


	12. Fire Light

Therion stirred the crackling bonfire, watching the jarl take a drink from his flagon, before giving an order to Irileth. She nodded respectfully, slipping away from the light of the fire and into the night. The rest of the jarl's court, either slumbered peacefully or drank with one another, making boisterous banter.

The Dragonborn inched closer to the flames, constantly shifting to different sides of the fire, in a vain attempt to avoid the ever changing winds blowing smoke into his face, which seemed to be about every other minute.

Relocating to avoid yet another change in the wind, he settled cross legged next to the jarl, before scooting closer to the fire.

Through the flames, he could see one member of the court sitting further away from the rest. It was Farengar, drinking his mead alone, scratching notes into a book beneath the steady glow of a candle light spell.

Therion started as the jarl clapped his shoulders and slid closer to the fire.

"You two are still fighting, then?" he asked, following his gaze.

Therion looked around to ensure their conversation would not be overheard. He could barely see the outline of Irileth, watching for any sign of danger from a shadowed outcropping. The sound of Proventus snoring loudly from his tent, could probably be heard from Whiterun, Therion mused to himself. The members of the guard who were still awake discussed amusing anecdotes, far from hearing.

Therion found himself smiling at the jarl, his strong, relaxed bearing reminding him of a mer he had admired greatly. Lord Naarfin, the general he had served under during the Great War.

For a moment he was back in Cyrodiil on a warm spring night, staring up at the southern wall of the Imperial City, sitting shoulder to shoulder around a bonfire with the other members of the _Laloria Malatar_.

A sudden, chilling breeze caused him to shiver, a stark reminder that he was still in Skyrim. He leaned closer to the flames, rubbing his hands together for warmth in a futile attempt to stave off the cold.

"Fighting? No. Arguing with Farengar is something I excel at," he said with a grin, taking a deep drink from his flagon of mead. The Nord beverage sent a wave of warmth throughout his body, relaxing his cold, stiff joints.

"What, then?"

Therion knew where others asked out of gossip, the jarl asked out of concern. The well-being of his court and his people were close to his heart. Therion silently wished Balgruuf was of a more long lived race. His time as jarl would be over in what would feel like the blink of an eye, and then one of his awful children would be making a mess of Whiterun.

Therion's eyes fell once more over Farengar, sitting alone in the shadows, illuminated in muted blue and gold under his light spell. It seemed he was always sitting alone.

Therion leaned back on his hands, looking up at the shimmering aurora, glowing brightly against the night sky.

"I tried giving something other than fighting a try," the mer explained with a small smile.

He heard the jarl chuckle, his blue eyes filled with amusement.

"Then you truly are as brave as the legends say."

Therion laughed.

"Well, he didn't light me on fire, which I took as a good sign, but he hasn't spoken to me since. I'm all but certain I struck a nerve… one unrelated to me. Although, if I'm completely honest, part of me wonders if it's," he hesitated, absently stroking a thumb across his ear, "if it's because I'm an Altmer."

"Well... that might be part of it," the jarl said slowly, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. "Did he ever tell you about the time he was engaged?"

Therion choked on his mead, managing to cough out a, "_No_."

Balgruuf patted him on the back, laughing heartily.

"Caught you off guard, did it? Well, he wouldn't appreciate me telling you, so I wouldn't go spreading it around," the jarl cautioned, tossing another log on the fire, in a shower of sparks. "It was some time ago, Farengar was just an apprentice then, studying under my court wizard, Nisain. He had come recommended by someone or other from the wizard's college in Winterhold. Well, needless to say we were all caught off guard when my dark elf court wizard introduced us to his young, _Nord_ apprentice," the jarl said nostalgically, pausing to take another drink from his cup. "Farengar respected Nisain, you could tell by the way he worked himself down to the bone to impress him. I never met Farengar's father, but I gather their relationship is a fairly complicated one. I think he saw Nisain as, if not a father, then something close to it."

Therion frowned, the other foot clearly about to fall any moment.

"Nisain had a daughter, a lovely young dark elf woman named Dinere. Well, Farengar fell for her, and he fell hard, hopelessly drawn to the elf. Love at first sight. It wasn't long before he proposed to Dinere and she accepted. However, Nisain…" the jarl trailed off with a sigh. "He forbade Dinere from marrying a human. Which surely hurt Farengar as badly as what followed. Dinere obeyed her father's wishes, breaking off their engagement. Shortly after, Nisain accepted a position with the Mage's Guild in Cyrodiil, and they left Skyrim."

Balgruuf scratched his beard thoughtfully.

"Farengar was never outgoing, that's just who he is," the jarl added, "He prefers to be left alone to his books and research. Since then, however, it's fair to say he's guarded his heart more closely. He doesn't trust anyone getting too close."

Jarl Balgruuf finished his drink, stretching to his feet with a groan, Therion watching intently.

"You and I should hit the hay, we have an early date with some more Thalmor in the morning," he said with excited anticipation, firelight gleaming in his armor.

Therion tilted his head back to look up at the jarl.

"Why did you tell me all of that?" he asked curiously.

"A man should know what he's up against," the jarl said in a warm voice. "And because I'd never have managed to convince my wife to marry a lout like me without some inside knowledge. Seemed fitting, to do the same for someone else."

Therion watched him go in contemplative silence. After the jarl had settled into his tent, Therion slowly rose to his feet, feeling tired and light headed from mead, but significantly warmer. Reaching into his pack, he produced several thin, metal wires, and set to work creating trip wires within his tent. He was feeling decidedly paranoid about surprise, late night, Thalmor visits.

Although, perhaps paranoia was the wrong word for it; after all, you were only paranoid if no one was out to get you, and he knew first hand how far the Thalmor would go to get their hands on him. If they succeeded a second time, Ondolemar might not be there to soften the blow. So he settled for setting traps to wake him in the event an invisible agent slipped into his tent, trying to convince himself it was safe to sleep.


	13. Drem Vodahim

Farengar felt his teeth grind together, his ears ringing with the deafening roar of politics. He tried to distract himself from the seemingly unending, banal discussions by staring resolutely into the crackling hearth at the center of the room, focusing intently on the fiery coals. Morning light had bathed the room when they had begun. Now the the sky outside was dark, leaving only the blazing hearth to illuminate the room. Skyrim's rulers, eight jarls and their respective courts, bathed in its warm, red glow, casting long shadows across the walls and their tattered banners.

"I understand what's best for Solitude," Erikur droned on, touting his financial ties within the city, speaking with a self-important air.

Farengar suppressed an exasperated sigh threatening to escape from his throat. The moot had not even _begun_. They could not reach that spectacular level of tedium until they first selected a new jarl for Solitude. A feat which had proven too difficult for its own court.

He let his gaze drift around the room, glancing at each of the court wizards in turn. A mere five in total, due to three of Skyrim's holds eschewing the office. Their expressions clearly mirrored his own inner boredom.

A common trend from all gathered, he noticed, was to cast curious glances toward the Dragonborn, who was seated between Irileth and Proventus. Against his better judgement, Farengar let his eyes wander to Therion.

There was something markedly different about the elf the last few days, which was in no small way related to his appearance. Normally, he avoided any form of armor which obscured his face. However, sometime before they had reached Solitude, Farengar had watched him cover the lower half of his face with a mask and pull his black hood low, concealing himself entirely. A strange gesture from the vain elf.

The effect was an unnerving one. Therion's body seemed to vanish into shadow unless one's eyes remained locked on him at all times. He could no longer be distinguished as an elf, just a tall, undefinable figure with unreadable intent, following the court of Whiterun like a dangerous shadow.

Farengar was roused from his thoughts by Bryling interrupting Erikur in a commanding voice.

"This godsforsaken war has divided our people and destroyed our land. If we're to have lasting peace in Skyrim, we need a ruler in Solitude who follows the proud traditions of our fathers, with more on their mind than lining their pockets. I would lead this city with _honor_."

Erikur glared at her, long standing hatred in his eyes, and Bryling returned the look in kind. The animosity between them was not slight; it was the kind grown from years of being at one another's throats in close quarters. There was no doubt that one wanted the other dead with an equal enthusiasm.

"Brynling's obsession with honor and tradition is… _quaint_, but politically irrelevant," Erikur replied. With this statement, the two of them were off, launching into yet another argument.

Farengar desperately wished he were anywhere else. Perhaps in the jaws of a dragon.

Jarl Brina Merilis, the Jarl of Dawnstar, interrupted the thanes' quarrel.

"Why don't we try letting someone else speak. Gain an outside perspective on matters."

Her tone was authoritative, leaving little room for argument, the old woman's background as an Imperial Legate clearly evident in her posture and clipped words.

"Yes," agreed Jarl Kraldar. The Jarl of Winterhold thoughtfully stroked his white beard adding, "I'd like to hear the Dragonborn's thoughts on the matter."

All eyes swept toward the dark figure seated at Whiterun's corner of the table, a quiet hush falling over the room.

Farengar could feel tension mounting, as the moot watched the Dragonborn, silent and foreboding.

Finally, a hoarse breath came from beneath his dark hood, followed by another, before breaking into a loud snore.

Farengar involuntarily snorted, quickly covering his mouth to hide his expression.

Jarl Balgruuf gave Irileth a meaningful look, and the dark elf forcefully kicked the leg of Therion's chair with her iron boot.

The Dragonborn looked up, raising an eyebrow at Irileth. Farengar thought he could see deep shadows beneath his eyes, though it was difficult to tell.

The housecarl leaned over, whispering something sharply in his ear. Therion's reply seemed to amuse her, her face and reply taking on a softer quality.

Turning to face the gathered rulers of Skyrim, Therion glanced from Brynling to Erikur before declaring, "Neither."

Aside from a loud, "Ha!" from the crone Jarl Idgrod of Morthal, the rest of the assembly seemed underwhelmed by his terse answer.

"Neither?" Jarl Kraldar pressed. "If you were a citizen of Solitude, whom would you prefer to rule? Surely you have an opinion."

Jarl Siddgeir sneered, chiming in with an arrogant chuckle.

"The Dragonborn clearly has no perception of what's at hand. The elf just wants to go back to sleep Kraldar, let him."

Farengar's gaze snapped back to Therion, searching for a reaction, but his expression was hidden beneath his mask, his amber eyes remaining neutral.

"The Jarl of Falkreath is quite correct," Therion said amicably toward Jarl Siddgeir. "I was having a marvellous dream and I wanted to return to it. Alas, I am awake now. If it would please this council, I will give my opinions, inconsequential though they may be."

Therion's gaze flicked to Erikur.

The Nord, dressed in expensive blue robes and furs, looked disdainfully back at him.

Though the Dragonborn addressed him simply, his question was anything but, and it caused an immediate stir.

"Why do you think Jarl Ulfric killed High King Torygg?"

Erikur looked taken aback.

"That is a preposterous question which has nothing to do with this meeting. I will not answer it," he said reproachfully.

Therion turned to Bryling.

"And you?" he asked.

"Many condemn the Stormcloaks, but I refuse. There is honor in fighting for what you believe. Jarl Ulfric did what he thought was right," Bryling said without pause or hesitation.

"So," Therion began, addressing the moot, "On the subject of the most disastrous event that Skyrim has known in recent history, we have a potential jarl who refuses to speak on the matter, and another who, although speaks with admirable convictions and virtues, has no deeper insights into the matter, which tore the country asunder."

The elf leaned forward, looking around for someone.

"Sybille," Therion called, looking all the way to the back of the room where the court wizard of Solitude sat.

Farengar recognized the thin, striking Breton from their brief interactions in the past. She looked remarkably unchanged, though it had been many years since their last meeting.

"Why did Jarl Ulfric kill High King Torygg?" Therion repeated.

Sybille's reply was unwaveringly direct.

"Because Ulfric wanted Torygg to declare independence from the Empire."

"And why did Torygg never declare independence?" Therion asked knowingly.

This time her answer was still direct, but also passionate, her respect for the deceased high king clearly evident.

"Because the Dominion is a sleeping beast that Skyrim cannot slay alone. Because many Nords are part of the Imperial army, even now. Because the food and resources we get from the Empire are important to our people. Because even if we can't openly worship him, Talos the God was once Tiber Septim the man, and this is his Empire. And Torygg wasn't ready to let it fall apart."

Therion leaned back in his chair, addressing the moot once more.

"If you want Solitude to have a jarl who will bravely rush outside to fight anything which threatens Solitude - before ascertaining if it is, in fact, an enemy - then choose Thane Bryling. If you want Solitude to flourish financially, choose Erikur. He's an opportunist and a cunning businessman. Ask either the Stormcloaks or the Imperials he sold weapons to during the civil war."

A jolt ran through the room, as many of the jarls regarded Erikur with unfriendly scrutiny.

"If you want Solitude to endure, choose Sybille. She's the only one in the court who bothers to look at more than one side of an issue," Therion gave the the Dunmer housecarl beside him a wry look. "And now I swear to do my utmost to stay awake. Apparently if I snore again, Irileth will not hesitate to send me on a more permanent venture to Sovngarde."

There was a murmur of interest, while Erikur turned red in anger.

"This is mad! She's a wizard! And not even a Nord!" he shouted.

The court wizards of Skyrim regarded Erikur with dangerous looks, as did all the non-Nord races, while the Dragonborn fixed him with his own cold expression.

"I am a mer. And a mage. Does that mean I don't care about the future of Skyrim?"

Erikur raised his finger accusingly at Therion.

"You implicate me of treachery and now you twist my words! I've had enough!" he growled.

Therion started to wonder how far Erikur would take the insult to his pride, when to his surprise, Jarl Balgruuf leaned forward and stared the other man down.

"Choose your words carefully, Thane Erikur. I do not take threats made against my court lightly."

Erikur, looking around the room, finally sensed the tide turning against him, and lowered his hand.

"Perhaps it's time we put things to a vote," Jarl Balgruuf suggested.

The vote passed with six in favor of Sybille and two in favor of Bryling.

As the moot finally adjourned for the evening, Therion slipped away, vanishing into the crowd.

Farengar, eager to leave the crowded room, departed the Blue Palace and emerged into the night air of Solitude. The jarls had lodgings in the Blue Palace, the guards in Castle Dour, while the rest of the various members of the courts had lodgings at the Winking Skeever. There was a moment as he left, that he thought he heard the sound of a tile shifting, coming from the roof of the Blue Palace, but he saw nothing as he looked up, and the sound vanished before he could locate its source. Shrugging it off, he slowly walked back to the inn with the rest of the departing crowd.

Farengar finally returned to the inn ahead of the rest of the delegates, but was surprised to see Therion seated in a back corner, sipping a drink and looking as though he had been there for some time. Giving him a bemused look, Farengar went to the bar to order a pint and dinner. The bard, a lovely Bosmer girl named Sina, finished the last notes of a jaunty tune and announced her next number; a personal variation on _The Dragonborn Comes_. Farengar glanced over to the titular character. The slow, soothing tune appeared to have a lulling effect, causing the Dragonborn to nod off as the bard plucked her lute, singing of his exploits in a voice sweet as honey.

"_Our hero, our hero_

_Claims a warrior's heart."_

Farengar watched as several Nords seemed to recognize the slumbering Dragonborn. The wizard frowned as they walked unsteadily over to him, surrounding the elf in the corner.

"_Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, naal ok zin los vahriin,_

_Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal!"_

Farengar walked over swiftly, telling himself it was merely to ensure the thane of Whiterun wasn't robbed or disgraced. From the way they stumbled and snickered, there was no mistaking their drunkenness. Before he could intervene, one of them swayed forward, grabbing hold of the Dragonborn's Akaviri dai-katana at his waist.

Farengar staggered as he heard, and felt, Therion's frenzied, resounding shout. In a blur of movement, the patrons before him scattered, thrown back, along with a table, and several chairs. Farengar saw Therion press the Nord whom had grabbed his weapon into the wall by the neck, reaching for his sword with his free hand, seemingly unaware of what he was doing. Lunging forward, Farengar trapped Therion's wrist, preventing him from drawing his sword, while wrenching him away from the choking Nord. The man dropped to the floor, coughing and gasping.

From the time Farengar had first found his magicka as a boy, he had been fighting. He had been in more fights than he could remember. Children twice his size had gone out of their way to attack him, adults cheering them on. He had learned early on, out of necessity, how to trap an opponent quickly. Despite this, he had a difficult time keeping the elf under control.

Therion struggled against him as if his life depended on it. The wizard, pushing his advantage, pinned his arms while pressing him into a corner.

"_Dragonborn_," Farengar said sharply, seeking to calm the frantic elf before he could wrench himself free or shout him apart. The title had no effect, and Farengar's stomach turned as he looked at the struggling elf, whose eyes were stricken with terror.

"Therion," he tried instead, adopting a softer tone.

Farengar felt him slacken, and repeated his name several times until he ceased his struggles.

Looking up, he could clearly see the deep, dark circles around the elf's eyes, as he watched him peer over his shoulder at the rest of the room, drawing deep breaths to calm himself.

Amber eyes swept back down to Farengar's sea green, and then down to his hands, still pinning Therion's arms to his chest.

Farengar released him, stepping away.

The patrons were looking warily at the Dragonborn, the mood in the air tense, until he stumbled a bit unsteadily, bending down to help up the men he had knocked down with his voice. They stumbled to their feet, and Therion stumbled with them, clapping a hand on their backs, while ordering them drinks from the bar with a friendly laugh.

Therion politely declined drinking with them, saying he'd had quite enough, and tripped a bit, draping an arm over Farengar's shoulders for support.

Farengar looked at his arm and then back to the elf.

"You're not actually drunk," he whispered quietly, ensuring no one else could hear.

Therion leaned his face unsteadily against Farengar's hood, whispering into his ear, Farengar suppressing a shudder as the warm elf rested against him.

"No, but they don't need to know that," Therion said quietly. "They'll forgive a drunken Dragonborn more easily than they will a panicked Altmer."

"Mmm," Farengar said, not disagreeing. "The point I was trying to make, is that you don't actually need to lean on me for support."

Farengar heard a chuckle from beneath his mask.

"No, but it's much more convincing, isn't it? Help me upstairs and I'll make it worth your while…" Therion murmured. "I'll teach you to speak some in Dragon."

The wizard paused, considering.

"Against my better judgement, I accept your terms," Farengar said.

He helped Therion walk, the elf stumbling along as convincingly as if he were actually hammered.

"Which room?" Farengar asked at the top of the stairs.

"Don't have one."

"What? We've been in Solitude for days, where have you been sleeping?" Farengar asked, opening the door to his room, adding, "Or, more to the point, not sleeping."

Abandoning the drunk act, Therion nimbly sprang to his feet as the door clicked shut. Crossing the room, he fell face down onto the large bed with a contented sigh. Rolling onto his back, he kicked his boots off and placed his hands behind his head.

"By all means, please, make yourself at home," Farengar said sarcastically, dragging a chair beside the bed.

"If you insist," Therion said with a chuckle. Pulling down his hood and removing his mask, he grinned up at Farengar from the bed.

"It's not my place to judge a man for wearing a hood. But why the mask?" Farengar asked, wondering how he had wound up with the Dragonborn in his bed. He would have thrown him out, but the tired look in his eyes, combined with the fresh memory of his terrified struggle against his grip, made him sympathetic. Therion had looked genuinely scared for his life.

The elf shrugged.

"The people we rescued from the Thalmor were panicking at the sight of an Altmer. I decided to cover up a bit, lest my face make someone faint. More than usual," he said with an impish grin followed by a yawn.

Farengar frowned.

"Don't fall asleep in my bed," he warned. "I don't want to get my head taken off for waking you."

Therion ran a hand across his face, trying to sort out the muddled memory from downstairs; waking up to find three figures looming over him, taking his weapon from him. It was all a blur after that anyway, ending with him in a corner, surprisingly pinned by Farengar. He wasn't sure, but he thought he had heard his name.

Therion sat up suddenly, looking concerned.

"I didn't hurt you, did I? Downstairs, when I..." he trailed off.

Therion was surprised by a faint smile gracing Farengar's lips.

"No, you were easy to subdue," Farengar said, embellishing the truth. "Even though I supposedly couldn't hope to overwhelm you, 'if I lived a hundred years'?"

Therion gaped at him, before grinning in surprise.

"I did say that, didn't I? That was weeks ago, I'm surprised you remember," he chuckled.

"I have an excellent memory."

"_Vahrukt_," Therion said.

"Pardon?" Farengar asked.

"Memory. _Vahrukt_. As I recall, I promised to teach you Dragon. I can give you the basics of pronunciation and a wealth of words, but grammar is something I'm still unraveling. It's a largely contextual language. The alphabet contains thirty-four characters."

Therion launched into a pronunciation of the alphabet, watching contentedly as he was immediately rewarded with the familiar light of excitement in Farengar's eyes, so foreign against his perpetually cynical expression.

Farengar was a quick study and an attentive student, absorbing information like a sponge.

"_Vir saag _you _ko Dovahzul_?" Farengar asked, sometime into their lesson.

"How do you say 'you' in Dragon?" Therion repeated in Tamrielic. "You… don't. Not exactly. It's implied contextually," he explained with a deep yawn.

Farengar considered his explanation, looking for a phrase he could try.

"Hm… _Hin nis praan?_"

Therion raised an eyebrow, astounded he had remembered so many words.

"I would take your meaning as, 'You're unable to find rest or sleep.' To which I would reply, _geh_, or yes. Is there any limit to your memory?"

"Of course," Farengar said. "There are, for example, a few alchemical ingredients I cannot remember all of the effects of."

"A few… out of the hundred plus ingredients in Skyrim? Each with multiple effects? Making hundreds of properties to memorize? That's astounding!"

Farengar seemed to ignore the complement, glancing at the window.

"It's getting late," he said regretfully, aware they had somewhere to be in the morning. He would have preferred to continue their session. The sooner he slept, the sooner morning would come and the moot would convene. _Divines_. He could only hope it would only take days, not weeks, to choose a king or queen.

Therion nodded, rolling out of bed and retrieving his boots.

Farengar couldn't resist asking, though he suspected he wouldn't like knowing the answer.

"Where will you sleep?"

"Oh, I think on the rooftop between Bits and Pieces and Radiant Raiment. A bit cold, but better than waking up to a pile of corpses at my feet, and the guards chasing me out of town."

Farengar paused, before leaning forward.

"If you're having nightmares, I can brew a potion which would let you sleep-"

"_No_," Therion said quickly, eyes wide. Farengar thought he saw him tremble. "No," he repeated, more to himself than Farengar.

Farengar felt his heart wrench once more, at the look in his eyes.

"When did you last sleep?" he asked.

Therion shook his head and tried to smile.

"I catch a few hours here and there, in public places. The Thalmor wouldn't attack me in a bar. It's just not their style. And even with a location spell, if your target is above or below ground, pinpointing is difficult. And on rooftops, I don't have to trouble myself with finding an exit," he said brightly, but his smile was strained. "I haven't slept for more than one or two hours at a stretch since Riverwood," he paused, considering whether or not to say more. "I can't tell you how relieved I was, to see you there, when I woke up. I didn't know where I was, I could barely breathe. My heart was about to stop, until I saw you. Sleeping beside me, in what appeared to be the most uncomfortable chair imaginable."

He wasn't good at saying 'thank you', and Farengar would probably be uncomfortable hearing it, so he hoped his words conveyed his meaning and left it at that.

"Anyway, I'll see you in the morning."

Therion stood and padded toward the door.

"Why did you choose me?"

Farengar's question stopped him. He turned to face the wizard, arching an eyebrow.

"You could have gone with Tullius, Brynjolf, the mad jester, Delphine, the creepy child… you know, I'm regretting being associated with this group of individuals the more that I list them off. But back to the point at hand; why choose me?"

Therion sighed, wondering how best to answer the question, and decided on a half truth.

"_Hin voth... Zu'u mindok drem, lingrah vod vodahmin,_" he said, with a warm smile. Someday Farengar would put the words together, with that indelible memory of his, but not tonight. _With you I know peace, long since forgotten_. "I feel safe, when you're around," Therion offered by way of explanation.

Farengar sighed. When he phrased things in _Dovahzul_ he felt his resolve waver. Privately, he wanted nothing more than to listen to the exotic words roll from his lips in that wonderful voice.

"You can stay, if you wish."

He almost regretted saying it, from the incredulous expression the elf gave him, tinged with optimism.

"As long as you remove all of your weapons, you may remain... and so long as sleeping is _all_ that you do," he added emphatically, implying that he would throw Therion out of the room in a heart beat.

The Dragonborn smiled, setting his sword on the table beside the wardrobe.

"That's fine. I'm too tired to do anything more than cuddle anyway," he said.

Farengar frowned at him, which only made him laugh and smile in earnest.

"I'll behave and keep my hands to myself," he said, adding his bow and arrows to the table. Farengar watched Therion draw a pair of hidden daggers from his belt. And then from his boots. And then his sleeves. He watched in fascination as the pile of weaponry on the table grew. By the time he was done, Farengar counted no fewer than ten hidden daggers.

Finally, he slid off his armor, cast a lightning ward on the door as a precaution against any late night visits, and wordlessly slipped under the blanket on the bed.

Farengar blew out the candles, removed his shoes, and laid beside him, on top of the blanket.

"Don't trust me?" Therion chuckled, shifting under the cover to lie on his side, facing Farengar

"Yes, although that's besides the point. The cover makes me hot."

"Mmm," Therion replied sleepily, mumbling, "such a Nord."

Farengar stared at the ceiling, his thoughts drifting.

"Dragonborn?" he asked, receiving no response.

"Therion…?" he tried instead.

"Hm?" came the half-asleep reply.

"Would you be willing to teach me more _Dovahzul_ tomorrow? After the moot?"

"_Edahraal_, sure," he said, reminding himself of Paarthurnax with his repetitive speech pattern, softly adding, "_Pruzah vulon_. Good night, Farengar."


	14. Rugged

A/N:

*Translations at the end of the chapter.

*The song the bard sang in the previous chapter was taken from the brilliant and talented Malukah's cover of _The Dragonborn Comes _on Youtube if you'd like to hear it for yourself.

* * *

Farengar stirred, halfway between sleep and consciousness, suspecting it was morning. He heard the distant, muffled sounds of people leaving their rooms and exchanging greetings, confirming his suspicions. Cracking his eyes open, he blearily tried to marshal the energy to rise. He preferred late nights spent in quiet, uninterrupted research.

The sound of incoherent mumbling made him alert, as the Dragonborn beside him began to murmur quietly in his sleep. Farengar turned his head, listening to his unintelligible whispers in silent curiosity. Several words, odd and exotic, rolled off his tongue. Though he could not say with certainty, they sounded Altmeris, interspersed with _Dovahzul_.

"_Nu..._ _ae na_... _baene cendre. Aure... Frul Bron_."

Therion's murmurs grew softer, replaced with even breaths.

The Altmeris sounded pleasant to Farengar's ears; subtle and refined. Its appeal was completely different from that of the ancient, ominous _Dovahzul, _although Therion's voice could add a charming quality to any language. Words fell from his lips with a natural poise and grace, much like the elf himself.

Farengar stared at his parted lips, entranced despite himself.

He cursed his perfect memory, as memories of their first kiss replayed in his mind, recalling every detail with maddening clarity.

Swinging his legs out of bed he hurriedly put on his shoes, dispelled the rune on the door, and left, shutting it loudly behind him.

Outside of the inn, he let the crisp, cold air of Solitude wash over him.

"_...you can barely keep your hands off of me…"_

Therion's voice played in his mind, clear and real as the night he had been tricked into drinking that damnable love potion.

Frowning at his traitorous memory, he tried to think of something else.

It was to no avail. The elf was still there in his mind - _grinning_.

Futilely, he chided his memory, silently ordering it to leave him in peace. As usual his mind ignored him; he had little to no control over the way it behaved. It stored and recalled vast amounts of information on a whim, occasionally moving too fast for him to keep up, and he had a puzzling time explaining it to anyone who asked what he meant. For now his mind seemed to have centered on the Dragonborn and there was nothing he could do to distract it.

He felt the memory of Therion's breath against his ear.

"_You're actually quite handsome."_

He made a sound of frustration and stomped off, startling the villagers around him.

They looked at each other and shrugged, as the grumpy wizard stormed off.

"Mages," one said to the other, shaking their head.

* * *

Therion awoke to the sound of the door slamming. He looked at it nonplussed, before a slow smile crept across his lips. Rolling out of bed with a low chuckle, he dressed in his armor and set to work hiding daggers about his person, still feeling tired, but more relaxed than he had in weeks.

* * *

"Gods, what a relief. I thought we'd spend the whole week choosing a jarl for Solitude. At least that much is behind us. Tell me, Dragonborn, what did Irileth say when she woke you yesterday?" Balgruuf asked Therion curiously, looking over at his dark elf housecarl in the distance. Delegates were trailing in, as Therion, Balgruuf, Farengar, and Proventus milled around outside with the guards from their hold.

"That if I embarrassed us by falling asleep again she wouldn't hesitate to run me through," Therion explained.

"And what did you say?"

The elf chuckled.

"I'm going to hold you to that."

Balgruuf laughed heartily, while Farengar silently left to join Irileth, already at the table.

"All in all, yesterday wasn't so bad," Therion said, grinning at the jarl from beneath his mask. "The look on Erikur's face was delightful."

"Damn fool," Balgruuf said with a grunt. "Threatening my thane and the Dragonborn, no less. I would have liked to see him try and fight you, in those fancy clothes of his."

"Hm. I could try and rile him into it later, if the day starts to wear on," Therion suggested sarcastically, "Give us something special to remember the moot by."

Balgruuf grinned, then noticed Falk Firebeard, the steward of Solitude, ushering everyone inside to begin.

They all took their seats as Falk closed the door and took his place with the court of Solitude. Therion noticed Erikur's now-former housecarl, the Altmer wizard Melaran, sat in Sybille's old seat as court wizard. The mer looked quite pleased with his new station. Therion knew he'd had little love for his old employer, who had merely been a means of 'paying the bills' as he had once told him, while offhandedly mentioning Erikur's seedier business practices.

Irileth leaned over, speaking to Therion in a whisper.

"If I notice you nodding off-"

"Yes, yes," Therion interrupted good-naturedly, quietly whispering back, "I'll meet my death at the tip of your blade."

Irileth gave him a look of mild annoyance.

"Interrupt me again and you _will_. I'm going to help you stay awake today. If you nod off, I shall wake you discretely."

Therion raised his eyebrows.

"Thank you," he said honestly, though slightly perplexed. He added, "Yesterday you were quite adamant that I not disgrace the jarl in front of the moot."

Irileth looked at him with her stern red eyes.

"Farengar spoke with me."

Therion blinked in surprise.

"He pointed out that I should extend you some leniency," she said solemnly, giving him a hard, and perhaps protective, look. "If you absolutely must sleep, I'll rouse you if you begin to snore."

Therion looked toward Farengar, but the mage was already trying to tune out the meeting, staring resolutely into the fiery coals of the hearth as he had the previous day.

"Before we may begin," Sybille said from the head of the table, "Urgent news has reached our ears this morning. Late last night, the Thalmor Embassy was razed to the ground."

"Ha!" Jarl Idgrod said, in an otherwise silent room. The rest of the jarls expressions remained solemn.

Sybille cleared her throat before continuing.

"This is one of but many Thalmor buildings which were struck in the past week. Escapees from various Thalmor prisons returned home, tortured to near death, to the horror of their families, inspiring these rash of attacks," she looked across the table and met Therion's eyes, "This, combined with growing outrage over the rumored abduction and torture of Skyrim's Dragonborn, has sparked unruly mobs across the country."

Therion sighed uncomfortably. Closing his eyes, he grabbed the buckles of his armor. At least he'd be able to say every ruler in Skyrim had seen him undressed; he would almost certainly be the first mer in history to be able to make that claim.

Jarl Balgruuf raised a hand, stopping him.

"It is no rumor. My court wizard, Farengar, retrieved my thane from one of their prisons."

Therion gratefully removed his hands from the catches of his armor. He didn't mind exposing himself, but he despised the looks of pity and revulsion.

"While there," Balgruuf continued, "he saw first hand those tortured or left for dead by the Thalmor. I am told General Tullius, also bore witness to these atrocities."

Sybille nodded before addressing the room.

"Overlooking for now that the Thalmor may seek vengeance upon Skyrim for being driven out of the country - a matter best left for the next high king or queen to contend with - I must consider what's best for Solitude. As we speak, any remaining Thalmor are fleeing for the safest borders; Cyrodiil and Morrowind. However, those trapped here in the northwest are turning to Solitude. Leaving us the last bastion for the Thalmor and making us a target for every angry mob in the nation. I've increased the number of guards on patrol and for the time being, the Thalmor within Solitude have been ordered to remain inside their headquarters and not venture outside. None of them wish to risk traveling all the way to Cyrodiil in the current political climate. If the Summerset Isle decides to send a ship to retrieve their agents, it won't reach Solitude for a month at least."

Sybille paused, looking around the room.

"What we decide to do with our Thalmor guests will have dire consequences. Given the overwhelming evidence of their barbarity committed against Skyrim's people, I would prefer to try them for their crimes. But as this country has just been through a civil war, I don't wish to stir the sleeping giant that is the Aldmeri Dominion, least of all before Skyrim's ruler has even been crowned. I will hold off putting any Thalmor to the axe. For the time being."

The room was silent, everyone absorbing the meaning behind her words; war between Skyrim and the Aldmeri Dominion loomed on the horizon.

"In the interest of hurrying along these proceedings," Sybille continued, "I move that we begin nominations. That said, Solitude nominates Jarl Balgruuf for High King of Skyrim."

The Jarl of Whiterun kept his face neutral, but Therion could tell he wasn't thrilled at the nomination, though neither was he surprised. Balgruuf's expression grew more somber as the Jarl of Dawnstar echoed Sybille, naming him. Slowly, the jarls cast their votes all of them throwing their lot behind Whiterun.

Only Jarl Maven Black-Briar paused, giving a languid look at the assembly.

"In Skyrim," she said, leaning lazily back in her seat, "The powerful make the rules. Might makes right, as they say. Who will the Dragonborn follow?"

All eyes turned to Therion.

Irileth groaned and kicked his chair.

"Balgruuf!" The Dragonborn shouted, startled and sleepy.

Farengar's mouth twitched as he fought to hide the smile playing on his face.

"Riften nominates Jarl Balgruuf for High King of Skyrim."

Only Balgruuf's vote remained. Therion watched the jarl hide away his displeasure. When he addressed the moot, it was with the conviction and bearing of a high king.

"As Jarl of Whiterun, I nominate myself High King of Skyrim."

* * *

Proventus was over the moon, arranging meetings and scheduling for Balgruuf's coronation. The eager Imperial seemed to have all of Balgruuf's affairs well in hand, while the jarl himself appeared to be busy accepting the praise and congratulations of countless people, thanking each of them solemnly. Skyrim was in good hands. Therion only wished he could say the same for his own people.

He slipped away from the crowd, following after Farengar. The wizard had a head start on the mer, and Therion had to cheat just to keep sight of him. Bypassing the staircase entirely, he swung himself over the rail and dropped to the first level, nimbly rolling to his feet and making his way to the great doors. Outside he found the streets densely packed, forcing him to duck and weave through the crowd.

For a moment, he lost sight of the wizard.

Eagerly searching through the sea of bodies, he caught a glimpse of Farengar's blue hood, only to lose track of him yet again.

Emerging from the Blue Palace's courtyard, Therion hoisted himself atop the stone wall, peering over the crowd. He smiled, spotting Farengar in the distance. Running along the connecting wall to the second story of Thane Bryling's house, he deftly leapt up and grabbed the edge of the roof before lifting himself up. Racing silently across the tiles, he hopped nimbly between the corner gaps, steeling himself when he came to the separation between the house and the Bard's College.

A wide grin spread across his face, as he was reminded of days long past. He could still picture the great, glittering streets of Alinor city stretched out before him, filled with the aromatic smell of flowers blooming beneath Auriel's crystal statue in the late spring.

The fondest memories of his youth were spent chasing Talamagne and Ondolemar across gleaming, crystalline towers and through impossibly high ramparts, trying to keep up with the older mer. They had always seemed one step ahead; a little taller, a little faster, a little stronger. He pushed himself hard to make up for his difference in age, trying to prove himself. They were always leaving on errands, with no guarantee of returning safely; he wanted to be there with them, watching their backs. He wistfully recalled Ondolemar chastising him after he broke his ankle on a particularly nasty fall. Talamagne had pantomimed behind his stern cousin, making him laugh, and feigned a look of innocence when Ondolemar turned around. He missed the both of them terribly and wondered how Talamagne faired back in Alinor. He could only hope he was well.

He focused his attention on the building before him.

The hewn stonework of Skyrim did not possess the same breath-taking, hypnotic beauty of mer architecture, but there was something about its solid, indomitability that made it appealing in its own right.

Vaulting across the gap, Therion grabbed hold of a wooden stanchion, heaving himself up and into the covered cloister of the Bard's College. He made his way to the edge of the walk, where he spied Farengar unexpectedly turn and run flat out. The wizard flew up the stairs, heading toward the secluded edge of the Bard's College that overlooked the towering cape.

Therion frowned, wondering what had caught his attention. Sprinting back the way he had come, he circled around through a short cut. Silently rounding the corner, he approached the amphitheater and spied a group of men holding and beating Solitude's court wizard, Melaran.

"Damn Thalmor," growled a huge, dark haired Nord, apparently the leader of the mob. "Your kind don't belong here."

"For the last time!" Melaran shouted angrily, struggling against the two men holding him, "I am not a _Thalmor!_"

Therion glided closer, moving behind a pillar and blending into the shadows.

"What do you think you're doing?!" Farengar demanded, marching up to the men. Electricity came crackling to life in his hands. "This is the court wizard of Solitude! Unhand him at once!"

The mob looked unimpressed. Three of them approached the Nord wizard while leaving the other two to hold Melaran. Therion silently resisted his first impulse, which was to bury arrows into each of their backs. Instead, he wordlessly cast a spell, watching the familiar shimmer of invisibility spread across his body.

"Why the hooded robe?" one of the Nords asked in a derisive grunt, the three of them circling Farengar. "You a witch-elf, too?"

Without warning, the large Nord lunged forward, ripping Farengar's hood down from behind. Farengar spun around, taking advantage of his attacker's hands being on his hood and not by his face. He swung his fist hard, causing the man to release him, clutching his nose in his hands instead as he staggered away. The other two rushed Farengar as their friend cursed loudly about his broken nose. Neither had a chance to do any damage as Farengar released the electricity held in his hands, causing each of them to scream and collapse, writhing on the ground.

Melaran's alarmed shout caused Farengar to look up.

The two remaining Nords held Solitude's court wizard precariously through the stone framework, threatening to drop him from the towering precipice overlooking the Karth River.

Farengar lowered his hands slowly to his sides, concerned eyes glancing carefully between Melaran and the three angry men picking themselves up around him.

Melaran's bewildering, upside down view of the bay made his veins run cold with terror. He started in confusion at the sensation of being embraced by strong, invisible arms. Looking up, all he could see were the hateful stares of the Nords holding him.

"They deserve to die," the blonde said, glaring at him, "All of them. After what they did to my son! To Ullen's daughters!"

Melaran took one look into their cold eyes and knew they were going to drop him.

"_ZUN HAAL VIIK!_"

For a terrifying moment after he heard the shout, he thought he was falling.

The hands gripping his arms and shoulders involuntarily released him, as the men staggered beneath the weight of the shout.

At the same moment, Melaran saw the invisible figure encircling him appear, hauling him back to solid ground. Melaran, driven by adrenaline, gripped the dark figure back with crushing force until he was safely upright. As soon as his weight was back on his own two legs, he sagged, his body trembling.

Therion gently lowered him to the ground before straightening up and turning his eyes, bereft of emotion, on the men before him.

He could hear their murmurs of "Dragonborn". With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled his hood down, putting his pointed ears and gold skin clearly on display against his black garments. He glared meaningfully, daring them to attack.

The guards, long overdue, finally appeared and made their arrests.

Melaran was escorted back to the palace, leaving Therion and Farengar alone in the amphitheater.

"_Zun, haal, viik_… Weapon, hand, defeat?" Farengar asked curiously as he replaced his hood, shrouding his face once more.

"A shout to disarm and stagger my foes," Therion explained. "I couldn't pull him up, with both of those men holding onto him."

Farengar nodded.

"I see now, why you've been wearing a hood and mask as of late. The masses can't tell the difference between a Thalmor and a high elf, much less a Nord wearing a robe," he said disdainfully.

They continued talking as they left the amphitheater and returned to the main road.

"For a robe-wearing, magic-wielding wizard, you sure can handle yourself in a fight," Therion said with a whistle.

"I am a quick study. And growing up in Skyrim was nothing if not educational," Farengar said. Anyone could have a strong body, in his opinion (and often did, in Skyrim at least). A cunning mind was a far more valuable weapon. He thoughtfully added, "Do elves distinguish between magic and physical prowess, as Nords do?"

"It's different," Therion said with a shrug. "Magic is as natural as breathing, to my kin. So no mer would underestimate someone just for being a mage. However, I wouldn't exactly bet gold on a mer wizard in a fist fight either. Scholars tend to be soft. Present company excluded, of course," Therion said with a fascinated glance. "I wonder," he smirked, "How well you'd handle me?"

The wizard snorted.

"I already pinned you once, or had the mighty Dragonborn already forgotten?"

"I let you win," Therion said with a roguish grin.

"I doubt that," Farengar replied. "Or do you perhaps mean you didn't have the opportunity to cheat with your _thu'um?_"

"So, my _thu'um _is cheating?" he asked, his voice filled with mischief. "What about magic?"

"You may feel free to make use your magic," Farengar replied, cracking his knuckles with a faint smile. "If you wish to test yourself against me again someday."

"Well, I am nothing if not irreverent. Perhaps I'll try it sometime, when you-" Therion shimmered and vanished, pulling Farengar's hood back, "-least expect it," his disembodied voice finished.

Farengar experimentally swung a fist toward the sound of his voice, his hand passing harmlessly through thin air. He could cast Detect Life, but it was more rewarding to win without it. On a hunch, he spun around and swung again, his fist meeting air once more, but this time it was accompanied by the sound of quick shuffling and Therion cursing under his breath in surprise.

"That one almost got me," Therion's whisper fell on his ear, a hair's breadth away.

"I missed you on purpose," Farengar replied with deliberate arrogance.

"_Liar_," Therion whispered.

Farengar chuckled despite himself.

"Why would I want to give such a handsome elf a black eye?"

"Handsome?" Therion laughed. "Appealing to my ego to win? Not that I mind; you flatter me."

Farengar snorted in mild disbelief.

"I can scarcely imagine anything flattering you. My country literally sings your praises."

"While I enjoy the attention of the bards, I prefer the praise of the more cunning and intellectual. From someone scholarly and perhaps stubborn. Preferably dressed in blue, and…"

Farengar felt an invisible hand grab his chin, while an arm encircled his waist, pulling him against a firm body.

"..._rugged_."

Unseen lips pressed against his. He tried to remain still, lest he look odd to people passing by, as Therion began deepening the kiss. His rational mind wondered at what was happening, unsure what to think. He could push the elf away, but he didn't particularly want to. Something bitter in his heart objected, saying it was too fast, undignified, and far too public for his taste. Not to mention the mysterious elf had too many secrets to possibly be trustworthy. But the feeling was postponed, as what was left of his rational mind thought, _oh gods_, what was he doing with that talented tongue of his.

Therion gently pushed Farengar backward into a small, private alcove, pressing him against a set of double doors, pausing to recast his invisibility spell before it could drop away. Returning his attention to Farengar's lips once more, he kissed him hungrily, using his tongue in the way which seemed to please the wizard, while at the same time parting his robes and pressing a thigh between his legs.

The small moan which escaped Farengar's lips was a delicious and slightly desperate sound. It made Therion ache against his leather armor.

The mer broke away to whisper in his ear once more, enjoying the effect it had on him.

"_Anahlrii jah__ hon_…" he breathed, knowing Farengar could translate the phrase, s_omeone will hear_.

Therion smiled wickedly as the wizard shuddered at the words.

Farengar was done holding still in case the eyes of the world fell on him, while an invisible man made sexual advances upon him. He touched his magicka and disappeared into thin air, his illusion spell making a _crack_ unlike Therion's stealthy magic. He found the leather armor of Therion's chest and moved his hands up from there, tracing the muscles beneath as he charted his hands along the unseen body. Finding his face, he stroked with his hands until his thumb located Therion's invisible lips, and he felt the elf move his mouth around his thumb. Farengar let him suck on the finger momentarily before withdrawing it. Then he brought it back to his lips, tracing them.

Therion parted his lips, letting him invisibly trace and explore his mouth, repeating his movement from before when Farengar's finger finally entered his mouth. Farengar roughly grabbed Therion's chin, forcing him down into a ferocious kiss. Therion could barely focus as he searched his pocket. Pulling the correct key out at last, he nearly dropped it as he felt Farengar's teeth graze his lower lip.

His invisibility broke as he opened the door and pushed Farengar inside.

The mage reappeared as Therion shut the door to Proudspire Manor behind them, and shoved Farengar up against it.

"So, who owns the house?" Farengar asked, his voice coming out as a murmur against the Dragonborn's lips.

He felt the door lock behind him with a _click_.

"A handsome elf," Therion chuckled, pushing Farengar's robes down.

* * *

Translation Notes:

Therion's gibberish comes out in the form of several different tongues, because he dreams in multiple languages at a time. If you're curious, this is what he muttered (Altmeris constructed loosely from fan-made Reddit attempts to create Elder Scrolls languages):

Altmeris

_Nu, ae na, baene cendre, aure_

we, and, long time, important

_Dovahzul_

_Frul Bron_

Ephemeral Nord


End file.
